Risking Reality
by Qumran
Summary: The war against Voldemort grinds on with partner Aurors Harry and Ron on the front lines. The pressure mounts for the forces of light, and facing reality without and within demands everything they have. HPRW Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Ron watched the glint of moonlight on Harry's glasses as Harry peered around the broken down brick wall, murmuring a warming charm on his hands against the frosty February air that made clouds of their breath. Why these ammunition dumps always had to be in the wee hours of the morning on what seemed to be the coldest night of the year was beyond Ron. He knew since Voldemort had taken the battle to the abandoned back alleys and rundown buildings of Muggle London, Moody and Tonks were right to insist that there be strategically placed kits of Fred's and George's most creative weaponry hidden for ready Auror use in every neighborhood. Hoisting the kit higher under his arm and creeping after Harry through the rubble, he prayed that this time Harry read the bloody map right for the ammo dump location so they didn't face a royal dressing down from Moody when the next patrol came in bleeding and demanding to know where their Weasley's Wizarding Weapons had been.

"I think it's just here," Harry breathed, squinting at his map under a faint Lumos and pointing at a handy empty postbox under a shorted out lamppost—easily accessible and with a large landmark.

"Do you want me to check the map or have you got it right this time?" Ron grunted as he heaved the kit into the postbox and primed the quick-release lid.

"Yes, I've got it right this time. Besides, Moody was definitely talking to you when he mentioned Aurors who couldn't find their arses with two hands and a Lumos at the briefing. Don't forget the sticking charm," Harry grinned wryly.

Halfway through the sticking charm incantation Ron found himself tackled to the ground. Harry's weight rolled off immediately as he began shooting off spells with rapid fire at the crowd of Death Eaters that were continuing to apparate in with loud pops.

"Stupefy! Petrificus Totalis! Shit, we're surrounded! Ron, take pattern beta," Harry shouted as he wriggled on his stomach behind a low wall.

"Protego!" Ron incanted with all his power, rolling to a crouch and sprinting directly _toward_ the line of black robes and white masks. Harry, taking advantage of their momentary confusion, spat out a chain of Incarcerous spells that had six Death Eaters bound helpless on the ground.

"Accio wands!" Ron held his arm out to catch the trapped enemies' wands as he turned to check Harry's progress on the remaining Death Eaters. A sharp impact to his right shoulder had him spinning to the ground and the wands clattering to the stones, bouncing and rolling through the rocks and rubble.

"Ron!" Harry shouted and swept through the remaining four Death Eaters with ruthless efficiency until they were all unconscious or tied up and silenced. Ron sat up and put a hand to his shoulder, surprised when it came away wet with blood. Funny how blood looked black in the dark.

"Is it bad?" Harry crashed to his knees beside Ron and conjuring a bandage, pressed it to the wound.

"Naw, it doesn't even hurt," Ron said, feeling his heart still pound with adrenaline. It seemed to jump a beat when the sound of pounding footsteps caused Harry to replace his hand on the bandage with Ron's and leap to his feet with wand drawn.

"We saw wandfire. Everything under control?" Seamus panted as he and Parvati drew near, Parvati already bending to place portkeys set for Azkaban on each Death Eater.

"About damn time," Harry raged. "We could have used you about ten minutes ago and now Ron's wounded." Ron saw Harry's fist clench around his wand, still in a defensive stance.

"Hey, cool it, mate, we were six blocks away and if Parvati hadn't been watching the perimeter we'd never have seen the spell glow anyway," Seamus protested.

"And if Seamus hadn't been telling dirty jokes during an ammo dump we might have heard the fighting," Parvati returned, straightening from the last Death Eater with a satisfied air and tapping her wand to the master portkey to send them to Azkaban holding cells.

Seeing Ron struggling to stand up without using his bad arm or letting go of his bandage, Harry grasped his good shoulder and heaved him upright. Ron watched Harry tap his wand against his leg in annoyance and then blinked as he seemed to slide in and out of focus.

"Well, make an effort next time, all right? Because next time we might not get hit with recruits out on a first raid—and then Ron wouldn't be walking away with a flesh wound." Harry shoved a hand through his already messy hair, dislodging a few chips of concrete.

"It's all right, mate, no major harm done," Ron said softly, hoping to see the tense lines around Harry's mouth ease slightly.

"Fine, let's just get back to HQ and get you patched up. You feeling okay?" Harry asked. Ron supposed his face must seem pale in the darkness as the adrenaline faded and the pain seemed to suddenly bite into his shoulder.

"Right as rain, Harry," he tried to say cheerfully, biting back a wince as he clamped a little harder on the already soaked bandage. "Plus we didn't have to use the ammo kit—that ought to make Moody happy."

"We gave him ten prisoners tonight. I expect more than just a thank you—what would you say to a two-day furlough?" Harry asked, once again gripping Ron's good shoulder in preparation for side-along apparition.

"Hey, I'm not hit that bad, I can appar—" Ron protested as the world swirled in color and Harry's magic pulled him away.

"Cutting Curse, poorly aimed and inexpertly executed," Hermione diagnosed crisply as she angled a lamp to shine on Ron's shoulder and peeled off the field dressing. "Were these guys amateurs or were you just lucky? Now hold still, this will sting a little."

Ron held his breath as he felt the cleansing charm burn through the wound, exhaling in a gush as the blissful warmth of Hermione's healing charm sealed the skin of his shoulder. He had persuaded Harry not to make him go to the infirmary, arguing that reporting the injury officially would result in a mountain of extra paperwork, unnecessary when Hermione could fix him up in no time.

"They were definitely amateurs, some young enough to be fugitives from Hogwarts," Harry sighed, perched on Hermione's desk and slouching back against the wall. Ron watched him lean his head wearily back on the cubicle's partition and close his eyes, lifting a leg as Hermione tugged a stack of parchment out from under him.

"Have you or Ginny run across any news of a big recruitment push?" Ron asked. "We haven't had this many hits on routine patrols for a long time." Hermione was an intelligence analyst at the Ministry of Magic and Ginny was her liaison undercover field agent. What the Ministry didn't know was that all of their information was funneled directly to the Order. Everything the Ministry knew, the Order knew, and that information was put to frighteningly effective use through the combined brainpower of Hermione and Remus Lupin. It was the sort of strategy that would have made Dumbledore chuckle if he had been alive to see it.

"You said there were ten Death Eaters there tonight?" Hermione asked. "Based on the statistics I've compiled, the raids have been increasing both in frequency and in number of participants. I think they're sending out only one or two experienced operatives with a set of rookies when they know they can target only one or two Aurors at a time."

"Which leads us once again back to a leak somewhere in the Ministry, because they're finding out how to catch us alone or in pairs," Harry put in, absently pushing his glasses up on his nose.

"That's why we need to randomize patrols and ammo dumps," Ron said, rolling his shoulder and feeling it was still a little tender. "Anyone who's ever played chess knows you can't make the same moves over and over again and not expect your opponent to notice. Even those jokers tonight could souse that if there've been Auror pairs out between midnight and two every other night this week, it stands to reason they could find us out tonight."

"Potter! Weasley! My office, now, with an explanation for why I have Avery and nine adolescent junior Death Eaters on my hands at this hour. Can't you two even manage a routine patrol without me needing to pick up the pieces?" Moody demanded, thumping past on his wooden leg, magical eye tracking them as he stomped on.

"Coming, sir," Harry replied halfheartedly, hoisting himself off Hermione's desk.

"Ron, Harry, I need you to give me those transcripts of Bulstrode's interrogation that I asked you for. Remus wanted to have a look at them," Hermione said.

"Um, I haven't quite laid my hands on those, Hermione, but can I get them to you tomorrow?" Ron asked, knowing he must look sheepish but hoping his recent injury would inspire her to be lenient.

"Tomorrow _morning_, Ronald, and that means before noon." She eyed him, evidently deciding he looked enough the worse for wear to be granted clemency.

"I've got mine right here," Harry said, grinning at Ron. "Your needs and desires are always first in my heart, Hermione."

Hermione snorted. "Well, you'd better make Moody's desires first in your heart if you want to get out of here anytime soon. You both need at least a few hours of sleep—"

"What's this?" Ron picked up a folded piece of paper sealed with red wax that fluttered to the ground as Harry drew the interrogation report out of the inside pocket of his robes. "Love letter, Harry?"

"Love letter, my arse," Harry snorted. "Let me see it."

Harry turned it over and his brow furrowed. "This is sealed with the Dark Mark," he said as he broke the seal.

"Harry, put it down! It could be poisoned or a portkey!" Hermione hissed.

"Too late now," he said. Reading the message, he looked up and fastened worried green eyes on Ron. "What do you make of this?"

Ron took the letter and Hermione craned over his shoulder to read it.

_Dearest Harry,_

_Be not deceived by your own arrogance nor your pitiful allies. A sharp and silvered death will call upon you, but not before you draw your breath in pain to witness the demise of your friends. I am taking the battle to you, Harry. The time draws near._

_In victory,_

Lord Voldemort 

"Where did it come from?" Ron asked, seeing the tense lines around Harry's mouth etch themselves deeper.

"I didn't have it before the ammo dump because I grabbed the report for Hermione right before we left and I would have noticed anything in my pocket." Harry started to pace Hermione's cubicle.

"Then it must have been planted during the raid. This is not good, Harry. It means they knew that you specifically would be there tonight," Hermione said, twining a frizzed curl around her index finger as she did whenever she was analyzing and worrying at the same time.

"Maybe it's nothing. Maybe he's just grandstanding like he always does," Ron said, hoping to ease Harry's tension. "Guess we'd better take it in to Moody," he said, resigning himself to getting no sleep tonight.

"All right, let's go." Ron noticed that Harry gripped his wand, revealing how unsettled he really was, and exchanging a look with Hermione, followed him toward Moody's office. Protecting Harry meant long hours and plots within plots. Lucky that being an Auror was good cover for his real job—watching out for his best friend.

Reviews requested!


	2. Chapter 2

"Please tell me we're getting paid overtime for this, Harry," Ron muttered out of the corner of his mouth, fixing his eyes on Harry's in the mirror behind the bar. He absently swirled one finger through his gin and tonic and noted that even glamours with Harry's power behind them could not subdue the unruliness of his hair. It stuck stubbornly on end even in its current dark blond incarnation, gleaming dully in the dark, smoky air of the muggle nightclub.

"Somehow I doubt Moody is feeling fiscally generous toward the team that puts more collateral damage expense reports on his desk than the rest of the corps combined. How much was that yacht we ran into London Bridge? And don't call me Harry. It sort of defeats the purpose of being undercover," Harry returned wryly, draining his beer.

"The yacht wasn't our fault—how were we supposed to know the bridge supports had magnet charms plastered all over them? Besides, the pound to galleon exchange rate complicated things. Who knew Muggles would notice little old us in a small high-speed water chase when they miss the Knight Bus every day?" Ron asked, leveling what he hoped was a menacing glare at a couple of unsavory types purportedly playing poker at a nearby table. Where did Moody find these dives anyway? Some of them made Knockturn Alley look like a fieldtrip for Hogwarts First Years.

"Ron, for someone who supposedly has some skills in espionage, you're frighteningly unaware of your effect on the world. Like right now—we're supposed to be two unfriendly strangers, not childhood friends out for a drink," Harry murmured, turning away from Ron more fully and sweeping a glance down the bar. The sultry jazz quartet on the miniscule stage covered most of their conversation when combined with the low buzz of voices and clink of glasses and bottles.

"But we are childhood friends out for—oh, right, sorry," Ron whispered apologetically. "Shut it, here she comes!"

"_I'm_ not the one—dammit," Harry hissed, before seeming to forget entirely about Ron as a sleek brunette in a black fringed dress sidled up to the bar. She placed a tiny beaded black handbag on the bar, took out a compact and began to apply dark red lipstick, pouting at herself in the mirror and studiously ignoring them both.

"Uh…" Harry began, and gulped. "Nice night for an evening, huh? Do you live around here often?"

Ron sprayed his drink across the bar, lightly showering the bartender and earning himself a dark look as the heavyset man wiped a towel over his balding head. Ron tried to control his choked mirth as Harry turned brick red even through the glamour and the girl eyed him in sardonic disbelief.

"Sweetheart, with a line like that, I hope you can do other things with your mouth than talk," she drawled, flipping her glossy brown curls over a creamy white shoulder and snapping her compact shut. "A Long Island Iced Tea, please," she ordered confidently as Harry got out his wallet.

As Harry seemed to settle into the conversation Ron observed with a hint of pride that Ginny's glamour charm was flawless. Nursing his second drink more slowly, he had to admit that after not seeing his little sister for months as she attempted to infiltrate her way into the social circles of Death Eater sympathizers, it was hard to hear her voice but not be able to see her true face. It was draining to have her gone for such extended periods of time, but even he had to admit that no one could match Ginny for smooth transition from one face and personality to another, and the information she fed Hermione had proved invaluable to the Order. He just wanted to be able to look into her eyes and see that she was taking care of herself, unable to hide from Weasley sibling scrutiny. Ginny had a tendency to push herself too hard, but now she was so adept at hiding her true self that she sometimes seemed merely a dedicated, beautiful but brilliant stranger—the image she projected in the dim light of the club. The days of threatening to tell Mum about her sneaking out with Dean after curfew seemed far away and innocent.

Ron shook himself and swept the ring of faces and dark corners of the club again, knowing that as per the plan, Harry would be totally oblivious to anything but the girl he was chatting up. Tuning an ear into their conversation, Ron had to admit that for a gay bloke and despite his comically flustered start, Harry could actually feed the birds some lines. Glancing over, he saw Harry run an idle finger up Ginny's arm as he stared down into her upturned face and felt a strange clenching in his stomach.

"Oh, really? That's just _fascinating_. Please _do_ tell me more," Ginny purred and stood up from the bar, latching onto Harry's hand and dragging him off to a corridor at the end of the bar. Ron followed them with his eyes, his hands gripping too tightly around his slippery glass. His leg began to bounce rapidly and he stilled it, unable to look away as Harry backed Ginny up against the wall. She dragged him closer by his tie and he bent to kiss her neck. Ron realized he was gritting his teeth as he watched Harry's hands slide down her waist, every line of his body so familiar that the blond hair did nothing to disguise him to Ron's eyes.

Ron's gaze narrowed, piercing through the gloom as he watched Harry's hips roll into Ginny's, the black fringe on her dress swinging with every move of her body. Harry was putting the moves on her very convincingly for someone supposedly interested in men. Was he enjoying this? Ron drained his glass and watched Harry's strong hand clutch Ginny's smaller one and then move to his pocket, continuing all the while to trace his lips across her face and throat.

Ron felt an answering reaction in his groin watching Harry's hips grind more intently into Ginny as he pinned her hands above her head. Ron found himself unable to take his eyes off the smooth rhythm of Harry's body. Did he move like that with his boyfriends? The slow jazz had given way to a faster pulsating beat that seemed to thrum through Ron's entire body, the other bar patrons forgotten as Harry writhed against the strange, dark-haired Ginny.

A small, hurt noise from Ginny pierced the fog of music and arousal and Ron shot off of his barstool, awareness of the mission crashing over him like a bucket of cold water. She was starting to struggle in earnest against Harry. Ron strode toward them rapidly, cursing himself for his distraction. He was supposed to break it up when Harry took things too far, but from the flash of real panic he could see in Ginny's eyes over Harry's shoulder, he had let it go on way too long.

"Get your hands off her, arsehole," Ron shouted, pulling Harry off with more force than he had intended as his anger with himself mixed headily with alcohol and this unexpected sexual excitement.

Harry turned slammed both hands against Ron's chest, pushing him off. He suddenly seemed very much a stranger as real rage sparked in his unfamiliar blue eyes. "What's it to you?" he yelled back.

Ron crashed into Harry, shoving him back against the grimy brick wall as Ginny darted out of the way with a squeak. Ron barely registered the click of Ginny's heels as she tapped quickly away down the dark corridor, feeling only Harry's hard body under his, the pulse in Harry's throat beating fast under Ron's hand as he held him against the wall with a hand on his neck. Ron's eyes went wide as he realized Harry would quickly notice his hard length if he remained pressed up against him. He jerked back as if scalded—the mission, stick with the mission!

"You and me, outside, buddy," he snarled, releasing Harry and shoving him toward the door.

"Fine, let's go," Harry seethed, shoving a parting elbow into Ron's side a little too hard. Ron stalked after him, throwing some Muggle bills on the bar as he watched the bartender place the fellytone back on the hook, probably deciding not to call the please-men since he and Harry were taking the brawl outside.

Ron barely had time to draw a lungful of blessedly smoke-free damp night air before he found himself pinned against Harry again, and this time Ron was the one backed against a wall. Harry grabbed handfuls of Ron's shirt, jerked him forward, and slammed him back against the brick, driving the breath from Ron's lungs.

"What is wrong with you, you idiot?" Harry hissed. "You should have broken us up five minutes before you did. She was getting scared!"

Ron felt his face flood with angry heat and grabbing Harry's incoming fist, swung his body around so Harry's arm was pinned high against his back, forcing him to double over.

"You're the one who was taking it too far, Harry," he breathed heavily, leaning over his pinioned friend's back. Harry fought to break Ron's hold, and Ron suddenly realized that Harry's struggles were making his firm backside move across Ron's still very much evident arousal. He jerked Harry's arm higher in surprise and heard him gasp in real pain.

"Shit, Ron! Just take the damn canister!" Harry's words were breathy with exertion, and Ron realized that the hand of Harry's pinned arm was loosely holding the mission's goal: a small cylinder containing encoded files on shrunken parchment, passed from Ginny to Harry and from Harry to Ron per the plan. Ron grabbed the tiny canister and released Harry, breathing hard as reality once again belatedly faded back in.

Harry swung around and a sharp impact to Ron's jaw had him reeling back against the wall. He stared at Harry with wide eyes, the muffled music from inside the club seeming even more muted by the silence suddenly harsh between them. They stood in the fine February mist that added sheen to Harry's falsely blond hair and stared at one another, panting.

"Shit, I'm sorry, just…did you have to half break my arm?" Harry finally asked. Ron dragged a fist across the wetness on his lip and found a small trail of blood.

"No, I'm sorry, it was just weird seeing you with Ginny, and I don't know…" Ron trailed off, not knowing what he was most afraid to admit. It felt like he and Harry had been perilously close to fighting for real, and oh, God, he was still hard, even in the cold, cleansing night air.

"Look, just make the drop with Seamus, meet me back here in five, and we'll apparate out. It's been a long fucking night," Harry said wearily, turning to face the street and keep a lookout while Ron made the rendezvous.

Ron hastened down the alley to the rear of the club, keeping an eye peeled for Seamus and trying to reestablish his usual calm focus while on a mission. He never flaked out like this. He squinted down the dark sidewalk at a figure huddled against the wall, shaking slightly. Flattening himself against the wall of the building, he eased his wand out of the small of his back, the uneasiness between him and Harry silencing his instinctive desire to call Harry over. Drawing stealthily closer he saw the streetlight glinting off a familiar black leather jacket and the tension drained out of his body.

"Seamus? What's going on? I've got the drop right here." Ron crossed over to Seamus and squatted down. He laid a hand on Seamus' heaving shoulders and realizing to his chagrin that Seamus was sobbing, crying with great gulping breaths. "Mate?"

"Dean. Dean's dead!" Seamus spilled out, raising a tear-streaked face to Ron. "I had just picked up the portkey to come meet you from Hermione when the…the…the official owl came. 'The Ministry of Magic regrets to inform you of the death of Dean Alexander Thomas and requests your presence to identify the…the remains.' He was an only child and his parents were dead so he put me as his next of kin." Seamus' head dropped onto Ron's shoulder and he placed a crumpled parchment in Ron's hand. Ron raised it to the light in disbelief and his eyes unwillingly traced across it. _The Ministry of Magic regrets to inform you…_

Seamus was still talking into Ron's shoulder and Ron felt hot teardrops soak into his shirt as they huddled against the wall, half-hidden behind some rubbish bins. Dean was dead? He'd been round to their flat for butterbeer and quidditch on the wireless only last weekend, he couldn't be dead. Ron's mind seemed to be stuck between gears, unable to move forward or back as the mist coalesced into heavy rain, drowning out Seamus' desperate monologue.

Ron closed his fist around both the parchment and the thrice-damned canister of files that was the root of this hellish night. Seamus was in no condition to apparate to the next contact point in the convoluted chain designed to throw off pursuit that would eventually get the precious intelligence back to Grimmauld Place. That meant that the next contact agent would be left standing at his rendezvous point, dangerously exposed as he waited for the drop that never happened. Nor could Ron let the files remain so near their transmission point where they could be traced back to him, Harry, or Ginny and their very public confrontation. Shit.

Hefting an incoherent Seamus to his feet, Ron dragged him around to the back of the club where he knew Harry would be waiting. Rounding the corner, the bright green of Harry's eyes struck him, indomitable hair once again black and proudly sticking straight up even through the heavy downpour. Wasting no time, Ron shoved the gulping Seamus into Harry's arms without ceremony.

"Get him back to HQ—I'm going to have to make the next drop point. Don't wait up," Ron bit out.

"But, Ron, wait, what's going on? You can't make the next contact, you could be recognized, it's too danger—"

Harry's green gaze was the last thing to waver out of view as Ron apparated, leaving his friend staggering under Seamus' grief-stricken weight. He didn't even know how Dean had died, and given the way this mission had gone so far, Ron hoped fervently that the Ministry's next notification owl wouldn't be about him.

Reviews requested!


	3. Chapter 3

Did You-Know-Who drink coffee? It seemed strange to picture the personification of evil needing something as mundane as caffeine in the mornings, Ron mused as he poured a fresh cup, squinting against the sunlight slanting through the kitchen windows of his and Harry's flat. Maybe that's why Voldemort was so nasty—none of the Death Eaters could make a decent cup of coffee and he'd been in caffeine withdrawal since regaining corporeal form.

Speaking of nasty, Ron could practically feel the waves of cold anger pouring off of Harry. Harry had been already seated at the table when Ron stumbled in, supposedly glancing through the Daily Prophet but Ron hadn't heard a page turn since he'd wandered in. Harry's stiff posture and the way he set his cup of tea back in his saucer with a deliberate clatter let Ron know he was in for it in a big way. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor and also having no intention of getting shouted at before even one cup of coffee, he carefully did not open the conversation himself. Harry could make the first move if he was so cranky.

"How's Seamus?" Ron asked and then cringed. Apparently the coffee had not yet taken effect, if he was deliberately walking into arguments waiting to happen after just warning himself not to. He watched the top of Harry's hair start to quiver slightly over the top of the Daily Prophet and waited for the explosion.

"I'm sure he's bloody brilliant! He certainly seemed ready to tackle the world when I dropped him off at his flat," Harry shouted, slamming the paper down on the table and nearly upsetting his tea. "His best mate had just died from being hit by a stupid Muggle car! Death Eaters around every corner and Dean gets run over walking home from the grocery. And after you ran off to meet with an unidentified contact who could have recognized you and blown the whole operation, I was left wondering if I would be the next one sobbing into someone's shoulder about how we'd done everything together since we were eleven!"

Ron took a sip of his coffee but did not attempt to speak. He was sure Harry wasn't finished yet and interrupting him mid-gale only lengthened the process. The only problem was that they had a 9:30 am debriefing with Moody and it was 8:45 now, so he hoped Harry started to wind down in the next half hour.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry demanded, now striding around the kitchen and still waving the erstwhile newspaper in the air. "You can't just say the hell with protocol and procedure in the middle of a delicate intelligence operation. There's a reason we have rules, Ron, and it's primarily so idiots like you don't get their arses hexed to hell every five minutes!"

Despite his best intentions, Ron simply could not let that one go.

"Harry, since when have you made any effort to follow the rules?" Ron stood and carried his coffee cup over to the sink, raising a pointed eyebrow in Harry's direction. Harry tossed the by now almost shredded paper on the table and shoved both hands through his hair, the motion making his t-shirt ride up a few inches above his pajama bottoms. Ron was displeased to note from the jut of his hipbones that Harry had gone from merely lean to downright thin in the last few months. Too many missions. Too many nightmares he thought Ron couldn't hear from his own bedroom.

"Fine. Fine," Harry sighed. "But you should have helped me apparate Seamus to HQ and then we could have finished the drop together. It wouldn't have taken more than five minutes and then you would have had backup."

"Right, Tonks would have been just fine with us barging right back into an operation that had clearly already been blown to hell after finding out news that a childhood friend just bought it," Ron snarked, forgetting that he was supposed to be ratcheting down the tension instead of winding Harry back up.

"So you admit the operation was already shot and yet you went on with it anyway," Harry concluded triumphantly, rinsing out his own teacup. "For God's sake, Ron, I'm supposed to be the reckless one."

"Harry, we can't bring Dean back," Ron said softly, surprising himself with his own insight. Bright green eyes collided with his as Harry looked up in shock. _And I'm not going to be the next to die,_ Ron wanted to say but couldn't. Suddenly he was back on the Hogwarts Express heading home after fourth year, watching the droop of Harry's shoulders and so desperately wanting to make him understand that Cedric's death wasn't his fault. "Dean didn't even die because of the war—it was random, Harry, totally random. You know that, don't you?" _This didn't happen because of you_.

Harry turned to the sink and dropped his chin to his chest for a long moment, and Ron watched the sunlight from the window play across the tense lines of his arms and chest in light and shadow.

Finally Harry sighed and lifted his head. "I've already had a shower, so go ahead and take yours. We've got to be at work in twenty minutes."

Ron noticed that Harry never answered his question.

Training Days were as bad as Desk Days, and if Ron were really lucky, he got to experience both in one extraordinarily Long Day. Training Days consisted of eight hours of Moody yelling at them at full volume while they squelched around a muddy moor somewhere pretending to carry out reconnaissance and battle formations, interspersed with the odd five kilometer run. Desk Days consisted of eight hours of mind-crushingly, fist-eatingly boring writing and filing of reports ("in neat quintuplicate," Ron could almost hear Percy mince) with stultifying meetings with readings of said reports thrown in for variety. How lucky could you get to have a half-and-half—pounding yourself into the ground until lunch and a speed shower and then nursing aching muscles and fighting sleep at your desk all afternoon.

The only thing better than the schedule was his frame of mind all day. As he watched Harry glide through patches of heather and nimbly scale stone walls, Ron realized that he was paying closer attention to the play of muscles in Harry's legs and back, and, well, his backside, than the tactics he was supposed to be learning. He hadn't forgotten his disastrous physical reaction in the club the other night, and when Harry lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his damp face, Ron found a similar hardness arise as his eyes followed beads of sweat inching down Harry's hard torso. He tried to play off his resulting fiery blush as a result of their five kilometer run. He was straight, dammit, and he was definitely not checking out his best friend.

The afternoon was filled with the bitter realization that while he was worried about his dick reacting to inappropriate stimuli, Dean was dead. He remembered small things like Dean cheering himself hoarse at Gryffindor quidditch matches and refusing to ask for a throat-healing tonic from Madame Pomfrey because that would be against house pride. He remembered how Dean had played straight man to Seamus' bad jokes for so many years that their rhythm was as smooth as Fred and George's interplay. He remembered Dean deciding to go out of 7th year Potions in a blaze of glory by keying his potion to explode right in Snape's face as he leaned over to examine the cauldron. The sight of Snape's greasy hair suddenly falling out in clumps leaving him looking like a plucked chicken had been relived at many a Saturday afternoon gathering to drink butterbeer and listen to the Cannons on the wireless. They would never again open the door of their flat to see Dean holding up a six-pack and asking with a grin what the odds on Chudley were this week.

By five o'clock Ron's brain had worn a track between remembering the bob of Harry's adam's apple in the smooth white column of his throat as he leaned back and chugged water after their run and the fragile, crushed feeling of Seamus in his arms, huddled against the wall in the rain and telling him that Dean was dead. Deciding to chuck it all in for today, he threw his quill in the general direction of his inkwell and went in search of Harry.

"Ready to wrap up for today?" Ron said, leaning over the lip of his cubicle wall and seeing Harry with his feet propped up on the desk and squinting at a map across his legs.

"What? Oh, yeah, let me just…" Harry trailed off absently as he shuffled through seemingly endless stacks of paper strewn haphazardly across all surfaces. It never failed to amaze Ron how Harry could be such a neat freak at home (a leftover from his hideous aunt's slavedriving, Ron reflected darkly) and feel perfectly comfortable with his cubicle in a permanent state of looking like it had been ravaged by a crazed basilisk.

Basilisk…Parseltongue…Harry's tongue…which was caught between his teeth as Harry searched for an elusive file…no, no, Ron was most definitely not thinking about Harry's tongue in any context whatsoever.

"….always something good there," Harry was finishing.

"What, sorry?" Ron tuned back in, feeling his ears turn slightly red.

"I said," Harry drawled, swinging on his cloak, "I don't feel like cooking, so let's go to Grimmauld for dinner. We can get the news and your Mum always has something good cooking there during the week."

Ron mumbled something agreeable as he and Harry headed for the lifts, stealing a glance at Harry's ink-stained fingers and wondering how his hands always appeared strong and graceful at the same time. It just wasn't fair to Seamus. Best mates shouldn't die.

Flooing out into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place with a grin still on his face from sharing a muffled laugh with Harry at seeing Percy ostentatiously pretend not to know them in the Atrium of the Ministry, Ron's smile faded as he realized that Harry had stopped dead still in the hearth.

"What—" Ron cut himself off as he stumbled into Harry and saw Hermione seated alone at the table, no sign of the usual pre-dinner hubbub that usually prevailed at Order headquarters on a weeknight. She was facing away from them, parchment spread all across the scarred wooden table, but her head was in her hands.

"What's the matter, Hermione? Headache? Long day? Have to talk to Snape?" Ron jauntily swirled off his cloak, hung it on a hook on the wall, and threw his gloves on a convenient side table.

"Shut up!" Harry hissed, jerking at Ron's sleeve as he attempted to stride forward. It was then that Ron noticed that Hermione had not yet scolded them and they had been there more than ten seconds. He looked again and saw that her shoulders were shaking and his mouth suddenly went dry. Hermione never cried.

"Hermione, what is it?" Harry asked gently, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Ron followed suit and tried to catch a glimpse of her face, still buried in her hands. She finally looked up at them, tears streaming silently down her pale cheeks.

"It's Seamus," she blurted in a choked voice. Ron fished around for a handkerchief before remembering he'd never carried one in his life and settling for swiping a dishtowel off the counter. She accepted it with a grateful nod and continued.

"When Harry came by to tell me about Dean last night, he asked if we could arrange to have someone be with Seamus for the next couple of days because he didn't seem to be taking it well at all," Hermione sniffed. "Parvati left at four and I was supposed to be there, but I was so close to cracking the code on these files you recovered that I l-l-lost track of t-time and forgot all about it. Th-then about four thirty we got a Floo call from St. Mungo's. Seamus…Seamus—he jumped out the window of his flat! Someone called for an ambulance broom team but he was d-d-dead when the paramedics got there," Hermione finished and dissolved in tears, her frame heaving with wracking sobs.

Ron's breath froze in his chest with her revelation and found he could hear nothing in the deserted kitchen above Hermione's crying save the strangely loud ticking of his mother's family clock with their faces on the hands. He looked across at Harry and saw him looking back, blinking rapidly as if he were trying to keep his eyes from spilling over too.

Without a word they left their chairs, knelt on either side of Hermione, and wrapped their arms around her. He wasn't sure how long they stayed there holding her, knees starting to ache as she soaked Mrs. Weasley's embroidered dishtowel with tears, still afraid to break their silence because it would mean that her news was true.

The double funeral was brutal, as Ron had fully expected it to be. Even though it was wartime, the death of two such bright, promising, well-loved wizards could not go by unnoticed and ungrieved. Ron watched Harry stand ramrod straight in his formal black mourning robes next to him at the graveside during the interment, cheeks white, jaw clenched and eyes fixed determinedly in the distance. The sick feeling in Ron's gut coalesced into the bitter but fierce knowledge that Voldemort had a lot to answer for and he, Ron Weasley, meant to see that he did answer for the suffering he had produced.

Ron felt like he and Harry could not touch one another at all today or they would break. Seamus and Dean were the ones lying in those coffins, but it could have been Harry and Ron, and why wasn't it? The unspoken question hovered between them in the bitingly clear February air of the cemetery. They took turns taking Hermione's arm and holding her hand, knowing that she was still writhing in guilt for not being with Seamus and possibly preventing him from taking such a drastic step in his grief. As they steered her away after the service, Ron saw a small blonde woman alone some thirty feet away with a familiar build. He realized it was Ginny come to pay her respects and felt the world was a pretty poor place if she couldn't come to an ex-boyfriend's funeral as herself.

After depositing Hermione in her flat under a duvet, with a cup of hot tea in her hand and Crookshanks on her lap and strict instructions to leave all work until tomorrow, Ron followed Harry through the Floo back to their flat. Harry trailed wearily off to his room as Ron loosened his tie and started to sift through several days worth of unopened post. Tossing a few bills and fan letters for Harry on the table, he opened the icebox and wondered what he could throw together for supper. It never failed to disorient Ron how after an earth-shattering event like the lives of two childhood friends being suddenly snuffed out, ordinary things like getting hungry and fixing dinner still kept happening. He sighed and plucked a glass jar of pasta out of a cupboard—it would be quick and filling after such a draining day.

Without warning the jar exploded in his hand. _All_ of the jars in the cupboard had exploded, as had the containers on the counter, resulting in a deluge of foodstuffs and ingredients cascading onto the floor. Even the kitchen windows had sprouted cracks. Ron looked down at his bleeding hand and shook glass fragments and drops of blood onto the floor before it clicked.

Accidental magic. Wild magic. It hadn't come from him so something seriously bad was happening to Harry. Suddenly terrified by the silence coming from Harry's bedroom, Ron plunged his hand into his robes for his wand.

"Harry!" he shouted, lurching and sliding across the pasta-covered floor and already registering that the blood making his wand hand slick would mean he might have to fight with his weaker-casting left hand.

Battering the bedroom door open with his shoulder Ron immediately threw himself in a roll to the side and came up on one knee, wand tracking across the room for targets. The spells poised behind his lips faded as he saw Harry, seated alone on the bed with a piece of parchment in his hand.

"Harry, what is it? You almost blew up the kitchen."

"Ron," was all Harry seemed to be able to get out, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Ron," he said again and held out the parchment with a trembling hand. Ron dropped his wand on the bed and tried not to get blood on the note as he read it.

_Dearest Harry,_

_Two down, how many to go? How many before you surrender your foolish quest and kneel before me? Two down, Harry—who's next?_

_Lord Voldemort_

Reviews requested!


	4. Chapter 4

Ron collapsed on the bed next to Harry and noticed that a few drops of blood from his injured hand were soaking into the parchment. Realizing that he was holding something that Voldemort himself had touched, he dropped the note as if it had burned him. It drifted to the floor, the red splotches in the margins rendering it even more obscene looking.

"Don't you realize what this means?" Harry seemed to have partially recovered his voice, but he still sounded like he'd swallowed sandpaper.

"Dean's and Seamus' deaths weren't random, I know, Harry, but that still doesn't make it your fault."

Ron met Harry's pained green gaze forcefully, trying to ignore the slump of Harry's shoulders as they sat side by side on the bed. The hideous parchment still lay malevolently on the carpet in front of them and if Ron didn't know it would be needed for evidence, he would have burned it. It amazed him how the cool evaluative Auror's eye within him could still scroll through things like evidence preservation and handwriting samples and magical signature traces when the same evidence screamed that Voldemort was hard on their heels.

"How can it not be my fault?" Harry demanded, clenching his fists. "He's just told me that he killed them because I haven't surrendered to him!"

Ron turned more fully to Harry and gripped Harry's firm biceps with both hands, the black velvet of Harry's mourning robes incongruously soft under his hands. "If you let him manipulate you, convince you that his crimes are your crimes, then you are surrendering to him, Harry. You have to keep your head."

Ron clenched Harry's arms harder as Harry looked at the ceiling and began to blink rapidly.

"It's just that he's winning, Ron, he's winning no matter how hard I fight—" Harry jammed his teeth into his lower lip as his voice began to break. Ron thought his heart would break along with it.

Ron didn't know what was happening, he just knew that he couldn't bear Harry's pain one more second. The green eyes were now swimming in helpless tears and before Ron could stop himself he pulled Harry forward and pressed his lips to Harry's own.

"Mmmph!"

Ron dimly registered Harry's startled but muffled exclamation but couldn't be bothered to heed it as all of the nerve endings in his body seemed to center in his lips. Harry's mouth was soft but firm at the same time, small but full of fascinating textures that begged Ron to taste them more fully. Ron was undone by the temptation and his curious tongue ventured out to lightly quest against Harry's lips.

Harry seemed to melt and he slumped against Ron. Feeling Harry's weight suddenly snapped Ron back to reality and he jerked away from Harry. Closing his eyes as Ron kissed him had caused Harry's tears to spill over, and he hastily swiped them away with his palms, scooting a foot away from Ron on the bed. There were still a few glistening drops caught on his eyelashes, though, and his lips were now fuller and blushing red, his emerald eyes wide with shock.

Ron had never seen anything so beautiful.

Never seen anything so beautiful—wait, he'd just snogged his best mate! His best mate who was most emphatically a bloke! Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod. Ron's mind seemed to utterly freeze and he could do nothing but stare blankly back at the still silent Harry.

Harry raised a shaky hand to his mouth and stared at Ron for a moment more. Then he flopped backward to lie flat on the bed with an explosive exhalation of breath. Harry grabbed a pillow and clapped it over his face, seemingly ending the discussion. Or rather, ending the lack of discussion, because neither of them had said a word since Ron had decided to discover for himself the sweet warmth of his best mate's lips. On that alarming note Ron beat a retreat for the kitchen and wondered how in hell they were going to get through dinner.

* * *

"So let me get this straight. I'm taking _my_ hard earned lunch hour to shop for _my _favorite food for _my_ own birthday dinner. What is wrong with this picture?" Ron asked, elbowing aside an oddly tall goblin in the Friday noonday crush of foot traffic in Diagon Alley and trying to keep up with Harry in the crowd of noisy shoppers.

Both Ron and Harry had immediately decided on the most mature, healthy way of dealing with their unexpected kiss: complete and utter denial. Harry had emerged from the bedroom half an hour later and the two had calmly sat down to a pasta dinner and talked of work and quidditch like any other night. Ron had spelled away all traces of Harry's accidental magic, and Harry had done the same with the traces of Ron's kiss judging by his composure at supper.

They hadn't spoken of it since, and as far as Ron was concerned it had never happened. If he had experienced disturbingly erotic dreams featuring tousled black hair and desire-laden green eyes every night since, well, that meant nothing. Neither was it the least bit significant that he and Harry both had been erupting into spontaneous fiery blushes at random moments all week.

"Oh, pack it in, Ron. Your Mum needed a hand and you know I can't say no to her. Besides, why are you complaining? This way you get to pick exactly what you want to eat," Harry replied over the bustle. The midday sunlight glinted cheerfully off the frames of Harry's glasses as he turned back to grin at Ron.

Ron found himself rather cornered by Harry's neat turn of logic but still wished they'd had half a minute to pop in at the canteen at headquarters. Judging by the ominous rumbling his stomach was making, he'd be faint by half-three if he didn't at least get a bag of crisps or something.

Harry seemed to read his mind. "And quit pouting about missing lunch—we'll just grab something extra when we buy the dinner food."

Ron drew even with Harry as the crowd thinned minutely and scowled, more for effect than anything else. How could you truly be unhappy when you had food, weekend quidditch, and your twenty-third birthday party all in the near future?

"But I wanted a hot meal—Neville!" Ron interrupted himself as Neville Longbottom strode across the cobbles toward them with his usual gentle grin, hand in hand with his fiancé Susan Bones.

"Neville, Susan, how are you? Wedding plans coming along?" Harry shook Neville's hand and Ron followed suit, each of them giving Susan a nod and a smile. Neville had come a long way from the cowed student of their Hogwarts days, although he still lived at Hogwarts. He was an apprentice to Professor Sprout to become a Master of Herbology, and since delving into his chosen field had blossomed like one of his carefully tended plants.

"Harry, Ron, good to see you!" Neville replied. "You hit the hippogriff on the head, we're supposed to meet our mums in half an hour to look at china patterns. I keep telling Susan I don't care what our dishes look like, but I've found it's best to let the women have whatever they want and just get out of the way when it comes to the wedding stuff."

"Too right, mate," Ron replied with a shudder as Susan rolled her eyes but smiled, her cheeks pink with excitement. Ron remembered the way Fleur, Ginny and Mum had descended into a subhuman state of crazed wedding preparations before Bill and Fleur got married, plunging the Burrow into a sea of lace, flowers, dishes, and stray hair-styling spells that were apt to strike unsuspecting males at inconvenient moments. He elbowed Harry before he could bring up that Ron had been forced to cope with a neat chignon and a coronet of roses for two hours before one of the spells could be reversed. Harry guffawed but mercifully did not share the story with Neville and Susan. Apparently he thought the twins' blackmail photos that they still brought out at family gatherings were punishment enough. After this happy reminder, Ron could bet they would make an appearance at his birthday party. Could a bloke never get a break?

Neville chuckled good-naturedly along with Harry's laughter and then hefted a shopping bag in one hand and took Susan's arm with the other. "Well, we've got to press on, mates, because I'm damned if I'm going to watch the mums fight over china patterns without a little fortification first. We're headed for Florean Fortescue's—one of his sundaes is just what the mediwitch ordered."

"Would you like to join us?" Susan asked politely, shading her eyes with her free hand.

"Thanks, but we've got to buy food for fifteen and be back at work by one. Which reminds me, you both are invited to Ron's birthday lunch this Saturday at the Burrow," Harry replied. Ron blushed—he should have remembered to send a written invitation to Neville and Susan.

"Assuming we don't have a dress fitting or cake tasting or anything else of life-shattering importance, we'll be there," Neville grinned. "Take care, mates."

Fifteen minutes and forty galleons later, Ron and Harry strode triumphantly out of Greengrass' Greengrocers with a feast fit for a king. Well, Ron strode, Harry more staggered trying to manage six bags of food.

"Honestly, mate, are you an Auror or aren't you?" Ron chided Harry, neatly shrinking Harry's bags and combining them into one much smaller bag.

"Yeah, well, shopping spells weren't covered on the training syllabus," Harry grumbled. "Come on, we'll just be on time if we can get to the Floo at the Leaky Cauldron in five minutes."

"It's not a shopping spell, it's a fourth-year shrinking spell that obviously a certain Tri-Wizard champion was too busy too—"

"Well, well, if it isn't Potty and the Weasel," came an all too familiar upper crust drawl from behind them.

Harry stiffened and turned around. "What is it, Malfoy?"

Ron thought Harry showed admirable restraint by refraining from any insults. Although perhaps it wasn't so strange. Harry and Malfoy had been an item toward the end of 7th year.

Draco stepped in so close to Harry that their robes were touching. Harry showed no signs of backing down.

"Just wanted to give you and the Weasel my love, Potter," he breathed. "How could I fail to greet the wannabe Aurors who nonetheless are the reason my father is dead."

Harry drew in a sharp breath and stiffened even further. Ron's shopping bag fell to the ground as his anger flashed bright at Malfoy for bringing up something still so painful to Harry. Lucius Malfoy had been the first person Harry had killed and it had killed something within him to do it. He'd done it to save Ron's life when Lucius had captured them the summer after their seventh year, and Harry was so shattered that Ron had wondered for a time if they would be able to carry out their plans to enter the Auror's program in the fall.

Like he always did, though, Harry bounced back and entered training with an even fiercer determination. That didn't mean that he'd forgotten that horrible afternoon when he'd first summoned enough hate to make the Avada Kedavra work. Ron suspected that Lucius' death had figured heavily in Harry and Draco parting ways that summer.

Harry didn't talk for two days after they heard that Draco had taken the Dark Mark.

"Shove off, Malfoy," Ron growled, dropping his wand from his wrist holster and letting it show past the cuff of his sleeve.

Draco ignored Ron. "So, seeing anyone new, Potter?" He looked Harry up and down slowly and stepped even closer. Harry was absolutely rigid and looked as if he'd break a tooth if he clenched his jaw any harder, but he said nothing.

Draco leaned in to speak in Harry's ear but fixed his eyes on Ron with a cruel smirk. "I've heard about your little intelligence operations with the Order. Tell me, Potter, how many Death Eaters have you spread your thighs for? I know Weasley can't afford the info exchange rate, but I guess you'd rather pay with your body like the slut you are than drop the gold and make him feel poor."

Ron saw red and it took him several moments to register that it was Harry holding him back from pounding Malfoy into the pavement.

"Stop it, Ron, stop it!" Harry grunted as Draco's malicious laugh rang out in the street where people were beginning to stop and stare at their confrontation. "We can't do anything unless he actually attacks us and if we do we'll be taken off fieldwork before we get back to the office!"

Ron subsided and stood panting, trying to pour as much hatred as possible into his gaze as Malfoy continued to smirk at them.

"You two are pathetic. I've been trailing you all afternoon and you never even noticed," Draco sneered. "I particularly enjoyed listening in on your little chat with Longbottom. Maybe if the fat lump had given this a squeeze, he'd have remembered to fall on his fat ass."

Draco held out something small and round and Ron tried to see what it was as he tilted his head in confusion at Malfoy's last bizarre statement.

Harry had frozen at Malfoy's words, though, and held out his hand to take whatever it was as if in a daze. "Give it here, Malfoy," he said, as if repeating a line in a script. Draco placed it in his hand, deliberately brushed himself across Harry's body with a seductive motion and a sneer, and sauntered off. Harry opened his hand and Ron saw the distinctive small, shriveled up brown kidney shape of a bezoar.

Harry let the traffic begin to flow again around them as he stared down at the bezoar in his palm, not seeming to notice Ron standing next to him trying to decide who was more mental, Harry or Malfoy.

"If the fat lump had given this a squeeze…give it here, Malfoy…Ron! Do you remember our very first flying lesson at Hogwarts when Malfoy stole Neville's Remembrall?" Harry suddenly demanded, coming out of his trance.

"Yeah, what about it?" Ron asked warily. "That's not a Remembrall, that's a bezoar."

"Shit, you're right!" Harry suddenly started running full tilt down Diagon Alley, shoving people out of the way as Ron sprinted after him.

"Harry! Where are we going?" Ron shouted, but by that time he could see Harry shoving his way through a crowd gathered outside Florean Fortescue's but making little headway. Ron skidded to a halt next to him and added his weight to the effort.

"Move, move, MOVE!" Harry shouted, frantic, and on seeing his and Ron's Auror robes, a path slowly cleared to the center.

Where Neville Longbottom was collapsed on the floor, convulsing in a hysterical Susan's arms, lips blue and eyes staring.

Harry squelched to his knees in the remains of the sundaes that were splattered on the ground and attempted to pry Neville's jaw open. Ron dove down next to him and placed all of his weight on Neville's legs, trying to hold him still for Harry. Harry shoved the bezoar into Neville's mouth and began rubbing his throat to get him to swallow it.

After a tense moment in which the silence of the gaping crowd was broken only by Susan's wrenching sobs, Neville's convulsions subsided into tremors that continued to ripple through him, his breathing slightly less labored.

Ron reduced his pressure on Neville's legs and without taking time to sigh in relief, turned to Harry. "St. Mungo's, do you think? I can make a portkey."

"Hogwarts is probably best," Harry replied. "He's used to Madame Pomfrey, and as much as I hate to admit it, Snape's the best when it comes to poisons."

Hearing the word poison sent Susan off into fresh floods of tears, and easing Neville's head to the ground, Harry gently helped her to stand and began to murmur soothingly to her. Ron picked up one of the least sticky ice cream spoons and saw the reassuring blue glow when he pointed his wand and quietly said, "Portus."

"This portkey will take you to the front gate of Hogwarts," Harry was explaining gently to a slightly calmer but still hiccoughing Susan. "Shoot off red sparks when you get there and then mobilicorpus Neville to the hospital wing as quickly as you can. He's going to be fine," Harry said firmly, placing Neville's hand and the spoon in her hand.

"Three, two, one," Ron counted down as Harry stepped back and Neville and Susan winked out of sight.

* * *

"Sir, I understand that we perhaps didn't follow every single proper procedure, but in the heat of the moment we did what we had to do to save Neville's life," Harry carefully informed Moody, trying to make a point without raising the Head Auror's ire any further.

Moody was brilliant but more paranoid and critical than ever since he'd come out of retirement to assume control of the Aurors again. Ron understood that having a trusted Order member commanding the Aurors right under the Ministry's nose was invaluable to the war effort, but as he stood to attention next to Harry and tried to weather the storm of Moody's displeasure he had to fight not to roll his eyes.

"Sir, it is our belief that the attempt on Neville's life is directly connected to the Death Eaters through Draco Malfoy, who we also believe had a hand in the murders of Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan," Ron bravely broke into Moody's tirade. He and Harry had hastily tried to sort out what had happened on their way back to HQ, but there were still a lot of holes.

"What?" The old man spun around on his peg leg and pinned Ron with both eyes, natural and magical. "I thought you said the Malfoy boy gave you the bezoar that saved Longbottom's life."

"Yes, sir, but how else could Malfoy have known Neville was being poisoned unless he'd set it up himself, either alone or with the help of other Death Eaters? Also, we have other evidence to present that will clarify our conclusions," Harry responded.

_A sharp and silvered death will call upon you_, Ron had remembered from Voldemort's first note to Harry. Who else but the wealthy, platinum-haired Malfoy could qualify as the silvered death?

Moody looked ready to tear into them again, but Harry boldly forestalled him.

"I've called an emergency meeting of the Order, sir," he said, lowering his voice despite Moody's ever-present silencing wards. "There is a larger plot afoot that is directly linked to Voldemort and I think we need to put our full strength to unraveling it." _Before anyone else dies_ went unsaid.

Moody stared at them for a moment more before waving a scarred hand in dismissal.

"Hmmph. Well, don't think that you can trot out the Dark Lord every time you're late back from lunch and I'll let it go just this once. Try to stay out of trouble for the next three hours and I'll see you at Grimmauld," Moody growled, but Ron could see a hint of a grin as he and Harry gratefully shuffled out of his office.

* * *

Hermione was once again seated at the ancient wooden table when Ron and Harry flooed into the kitchen at Order headquarters, but mercifully dry-eyed and comfortingly businesslike as usual. Mrs. Weasley was at the stove presiding over what looked like at least five huge tureens of fragrant soup. She'd obviously heard about the meeting and meant to see that no one left hungry.

"Hi Mum, Hermione," Ron greeted them through a mouthful of the roll he'd immediately snatched from the baskets Mrs. Weasley was stockpiling. Harry finished brushing the soot off of his robes as Hermione rose to greet them. The three met in their customary brief three-way hug that they employed in times of stress. Scooping up another roll and accepting a kiss from his Mum, Ron allowed Hermione to draw him and Harry into the quieter library, mumbling greetings at various accumulating Order members they passed in the hallway.

"Neville's fine," Hermione said immediately, closing the dark oak library doors behind her. She waved her wand in a privacy charm before sliding it behind her ear and striding purposefully toward the leather sofa. "Professor Snape was able to brew the antidote in virtually no time."

"Bet it killed him to help Neville," Ron observed snidely, swallowing the last bite of roll and slouching haphazardly next to Hermione, never understanding how she always managed to sit with such upright, prim posture at the end of a long day. His comment earned him the expected swat on the arm.

"Honestly, Ronald, Professor Snape may not be very pleasant, but he's a professional and an absolute marvel in his field. I was looking through _Potions Quarterly_ and did you know that he's invented three new potions in the last year alone? The faster-acting Skelegrow has been picked up by quidditch teams who have found that it's now easier to remove and regrow broken bones than try to heal them. And the Polyjuice Potion that's impervious to all normal biological referents—it even matches your voice to the person you're impersonating! Although Professor McGonagall told me that his Simmer-Down potion that's actually just a chemical inverse to Pepper-Up was more to drug Gryffindors into a stupor so they wouldn't blow up so many cauldrons in class but he could still fail them."

As usual, Hermione needed to prattle on about some kind of academic theory for ten minutes before Ron or Harry could get a word in edgewise. Ron just lay his head back on the sofa and let the words wash over him. Harry seemed distracted, though, picking up and setting back down small objects from the tables scattered around the small library.

"…so you can see, Ron, that theoretical academic advances can only help our practical efforts against Voldemort," Hermione concluded triumphantly. Ron couldn't be bothered to do more than grunt in reply and Harry was still wandering around absently.

This cued the pursing of Hermione's lips and the lowering of her brow, which Ron recognized as danger signs of an immanent Cranky Lecture, probably #537, or You Boys Will Never Get Anywhere in this World If You Don't Listen and Learn from Those Better Informed than You. Best to nip it in the bud.

"Look, Hermione, Harry's got to present this whole mess with Dean and Seamus and Neville to the Order tonight, and we were hoping you'd help us sort it out a bit beforehand," Ron redirected Hermione efficiently. Her eyes brightened as she saw the opportunity to do two of her favorite things at once: 1) help the boys and 2) figure something out. Harry finally came and sat down across from them in a high-back chair, planting his feet wide on the floor and leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and looking at Hermione expectantly.

"Right. Well, we have to answer a number of questions," Hermione began. "What is Voldemort tying to accomplish with these notes? Are the deaths of Dean and Seamus connected to Neville's poisoning? What did Malfoy have to do with Neville's poisoning and why did he give Harry the means of preventing it? And in what way are Voldemort's and Malfoy's actions related?"

Harry took out the two notes he had received and handed them to Hermione as Ron explained their lunchtime confrontation in Diagon Alley in more detail and his silvered death theory. She nodded along as she scrutinized the parchments.

"Draco has to be acting under Voldemort's direct orders," Harry said. "We know he's a Death Eater, but why did he risk giving us the bezoar? Why would he sabotage his own mission?" Ron did not miss the fact that Harry called him Draco rather than Malfoy.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. "Harry, when was the last time you saw Malfoy before today?" Hermione asked carefully, her hand creeping up to twine a curl around her finger.

"Why do you ask?" Harry said in a dangerous tone, leveling a dark glance at them.

"Well, it's just those things he said," Ron ventured. "They were ugly but he clearly still has some kind of thing for you. We don't really know what went down between the two of you when you broke it off."

Harry thrust himself to his feet, his green eyes snapping and sparking. "That's none of your business, Ron," he said icily.

"Well, I think it is our business," Ron raised his voice slightly, standing to meet Harry. "He obviously still fancies you!"

"Why do you care, Ron? What's it to you who fancies me?" Harry stepped closer, his voice getting quieter as Ron's got louder. Hermione drew in a breath but did not speak.

"Do you fancy him back?" Ron demanded, damning himself for noticing how alive and vibrant Harry was when he was angry, his compact, muscled body coiled ready to spring.

"Why do you need to know?" Harry returned, deliberately glancing down at Ron's lips. Ron could have hit him for that. "Besides, I said that it was none of your business."

"It's our business if it's getting our friends killed," Ron blurted angrily and then instantly regretted it.

Harry reeled back as if he'd been punched.

Hermione gasped, standing and taking hold of Ron's sleeve. Sorry but still angry and strangely hurt, Ron turned away from Harry's small mouth hanging open slightly in his pale face. No one said anything for a long moment.

The library doors banged open on their silent tableau and Snape strode in, black robes billowing even in the few steps it took to enter the room. Merlin, of all the times for him to barge in.

"Potter, if you could be troubled to remember that you were the one to call this ridiculous and ill-timed meeting, probably to crow over your pitiful accomplishments as the much-vaunted Auror, you and your idiot friends might realize that you are wasting the valuable time of the entire Order by delaying dinner." Snape's trademark sneer and glinting black eyes swept over them.

Harry swung to face Snape and Ron and Hermione immediately flanked him in support despite the tension still hanging thick in the air. Harry lifted his chin to address Snape and in the face of his frustration Ron felt a pang of pride at how Harry always came up swinging no matter the circumstances.

"Professor Snape," Harry greeted the Potions Master cordially. "I understand we have you to thank for Neville's recovery. We are very grateful."

Ron nodded in support and acknowledgment of Harry's little speech. Snape couldn't be bothered to even muster an insult but simply spun and stalked out of the room.

Harry rested his head in his hand briefly, rubbing for a moment at his scar before following Snape. Ron knew better than to ask if his scar had been hurting in Harry's current mood, so he simply fell into step with Hermione as they walked to the kitchen. She was glancing between him and Harry with a calculating gleam in her eye, and Ron realized she hadn't said a word to interrupt his and Harry's heated exchange in the library.

Fantastic. The only thing he needed was his best friend whom he used to fancy cottoning on to the fact that he now fancied his other best friend who happened to be a male.

Ron briefly considered obliviating himself since he'd just officially admitted, if only in his head, that he fancied Harry, but gave it up with a sigh and unashamedly watched Harry's arse all the way to the kitchen. Might as well get something out of the evening.

Reviews requested!


	5. Chapter 5

"Professor McGonagall," Ron heard Harry hiss at the Head of the Order. "When are we going to get started?"

It was a valid question. Everyone had adjourned from the kitchen to the living room, having consumed bowl after bowl of Mrs. Weasley's hearty soup and generous slices of thick homemade bread. They were now milling around, seating themselves on sofas, chairs and some of the younger members on the floor. Jovial conversation floated on the air as the roughly forty most active members of the Order of the Phoenix exchanged greetings and news, some of them only recently back from outposts or undercover roles.

Ron saw his brothers Charlie and Bill engaged in coversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks. Fred and George were standing just behind Moody and shooting him anticipatory looks that surely boded no good. Neville, who had arrived during dinner pale but cheerful, had been given the most comfortable spot on the sofa and Susan was wrapping an afghan around him. Hermione seemed deep in consultation with Arabella Figg (always looking out for the underdog, not wanting the Squib to feel left out, Ron though with fond pride). Mrs. Weasley was sitting on an ottoman looking up at a smiling Remus Lupin standing by the mantle, while Mr. Weasley seemed to be trying to interest Professor Snape in one of his Muggle plugs. Snape just scowled into the distance, hovering at the back like a small bat next to Hagrid's towering presence. Even Ginny was there curled up in an armchair in the corner, familiar freckles and red hair restored, looking tired but with a half-grin on her face as she watched Mundungus Fletcher pitch a suspicious looking burlap bag into a closet.

Ron, standing next to Harry near the front of the room, watched McGonagall cock an eyebrow.

"Mr. Potter, as you have called this meeting, it is up to you to chair it," she told Harry in her customary tone of slightly acid amusement.

Ron watched Harry as his eyes widened for a moment. Then he blinked, hitched up his khaki pants and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, everyone? I'd like to call the Order, uh, to order," Harry finished rather sheepishly.

The volume of conversation had risen in the last five minutes and no one seemed to hear Harry.

"Could we get this meeting started?" Harry asked a little more loudly.

He remained completely ignored. Time to take things in hand.

"OI!" Ron shouted, and heads swiveled toward him as silence abruptly fell. Ron felt his cheeks heat up but simply gestured to Harry and sat down in a rickety wooden chair.

"Thank you," Harry said wryly. "Thanks to everyone for coming on such short notice. I'm afraid we've uncovered a new plot of Voldemort's that's taken a heavy toll already."

Seated next to Harry, Ron had a view of most of the Order facing front to listen. He watched their reactions as Harry began to explain.

"Two weeks ago during a skirmish a note from Voldemort was planted on me," Harry said, his gaze turning slightly cold as if daring anyone to cringe at the name. "The note reads as follows:

_Dearest Harry,_

_Be not deceived by your own arrogance nor your pitiful allies. A sharp and silvered death will call upon you, but not before you draw your breath in pain to witness the demise of your friends. I am taking the battle to you, Harry. The time draws near._

_In victory,_

_Lord Voldemort_." 

Ron continued to study the faces of the Order as they listened to the note. Mrs. Weasley wrung her hands and looked worried, while Snape remained completely impassive, black eyes glinting coldly. Fred and George actually appeared to be paying attention and had identical squints of concentration, heads tilted to one side. Moody's magical eye swirled around erratically while Tonks' hair gently pulsed from green to blue and back again as she closed her eyes in thought.

Harry continued. "When Ron and I arrived home after Dean's and Seamus' funeral, I found that another note had been planted in my pocket." Harry read the second note and paused for the implications to sink in.

Kingsley Shacklebolt rubbed his forefinger across his lip contemplatively, while Hermione twined a curl around a finger with her left hand and furiously took notes with her right. Ron was surprised to look over and see Lupin with a fiercely determined glare and a clenched fist propped on the mantle.

"So what we've got here is essentially a carefully planned campaign by Voldemort to eliminate the people close to me in hopes of my surrendering to him. I don't have to tell you that each one of you is at risk to be his next strike. We believe Neville was the next on the list but Draco Malfoy intervened to help us save him," Harry said with a nod at Neville, who gave a tired grin.

"Here is where it gets complicated. We believe that Malfoy is in fact Voldemort's agent for these assassination strikes, his so-called 'silvered death.' What is also clear is that Malfoy has some kind of mixed agenda, which led him to prevent Neville's death covertly but not defy Voldemort openly. So I have called you here tonight to 1) warn you to watch your step more closely than ever, 2) discuss Voldemort's plan and ways of stopping it, and 3) decipher Malfoy's agenda and speculate on his motives. Headmistress, I'd like to turn the discussion over to you," Harry concluded and sat down with a relieved sounding huff.

"Well done, mate," Ron leaned over to say in Harry's ear, patting him on the leg and trying not to notice the power of the muscle underneath his hand. Harry nodded with only faint coloring of his cheeks. Ron wondered if that came from the compliment or from his hand on Harry's thigh.

For the next hour speculations and discussion swirled around the living room as the Order tried to hash out plots and counterplots and possible plans of action to offset the increased threat. With a loud and clearly inebriated hiccough, Mundungus Fletcher suddenly spoke up.

"Look 'ere, weren't Malfoy Harry's boyfriend? I caught 'em snogging out behind the Hog's Head more than once," with what he seemed to believe was a companionable leer at Harry.

There was a shocked and strained silence as everyone tried to decide whether or not to address what was clearly relevant data but also extremely taboo given the nature of Lucius' death, Harry's and Draco's breakup, and Draco's immediate joining of the Death Eaters. Ron glared as hard as he could at Dung but held back from standing up and shouting when he looked at Harry's pale, downturned face, eyes closed and fists clenched.

Professor McGonagall stepped in with Gryffindor courage.

"Mr. Potter's romantic attachments are his own business, much as I believe you would prefer the economic enterprises you run off of your Order connections to remain, Mr. Fletcher," she concluded sternly.

The laugh that ran through the crowd broke the tension. Dung was unphased, simply waving his firewhiskey jug happily at McGonagall before stumbling off down the hall.

Dung's departure seemed to signal the end of the meeting, and people began to shake hands and offer the occasional hug. They gradually filtered out of the house amid gathering of cloaks and scarves. Harry did not seem interested in hanging around so after quick kisses pressed to Hermione's cheeks, the boys headed for the fireplace to floo back to their flat. As he stepped into the hearth, Ron took a long look around the room at the familiar faces that had held the front so long, hoping against hope that his next sight of one of them would not be at a funeral.

* * *

Ron's dark thoughts of the evening before seemed far away as he turned his face up to the Saturday sunshine and drew in deep breaths of the bracing March air. Looking around at the noisily eating, talking and laughing group of people seated around the enlarged picnic table in the backyard of the Burrow, he realized that despite the war, it was a great time to be twenty-three years old. Mum had really outdone herself today, Ron reflected, happily biting into a drumstick of fried chicken. Harry seemed to concur judging by the single-mindedness with which he was shoveling down mashed potatoes. 

Many of the Order members who had gathered for the meeting at Grimmauld were now talking shop between bites of shepherd's pie or breaded fish. While the menu may not have seemed to fit together by any normal standards, Mrs. Weasley always cooked exactly what her children loved best on their birthdays. As Fred and George loved meatballs and mint ice cream above all other things, Ron's combination of foods seemed normal by comparison. Speaking of Fred and George, he hadn't been subjected to a single prank yet nor had the wedding hair fiasco pictures surfaced. As birthdays were considered an absolute free-for-all joke opportunity on the person in question, Ron was concerned—this was merely the silence before the storm. God only knew what his actual present was.

Before he could worry himself into indigestion, Mrs. Weasley stood up from the table and refastened her apron around her waist.

"Ron, dear, are you ready for some birthday cake?"

Ron nodded enthusiastically through his mouthful of chicken and ignored Hermione's disgusted snort as this caused gravy to slither down his chin. The napkin she threw hit him directly in the face.

"Honestly, Ronald, are you certain you're turning twenty-three today or was it just three?"

Ron only swallowed and exchanged a grin with Harry as he mopped his face with the napkin.

"Hermione, I did not attain the ripe old age of twenty-three without applying due appreciation to culinary consumption, especially when it comes to Mum's food. Besides, if you expect me not to go all out when Harry and I were stuck with nothing but Ministry field rations all last week after the canteen house elves went on strike—and I have a strong suspicion of just who got _that_ underway—"

A piercing scream from indoors cut Ron off.

The cheerful party fell silent for an instant and then glasses and benches were overturned in a mad rush for the house. Ron joined his brothers in pressing through the crowd to the back steps. As he gained the porch he glanced back to see that Harry had not joined the flight to the house but, wand out, was scanning the perimeter for threats.

Finally pushing into the kitchen Ron saw a hyperventilating Mrs. Weasley being guided to a chair by Fred and Ginny while everyone else seemed frozen in shock.

Sprawled haphazardly on the table, head in the now destroyed birthday cake, was Luna Lovegood.

Dead.

Struggling for breath, Ron wondered at how his brain catalogued minute details, like how her long, blond hair spread through the blue icing that matched her now severely protruding blue eyes. That plus the purpling bruises circling her neck made it clear that she'd been strangled. The blood on her hands that was concentrated under her fingernails showed how hard she must have struggled.

Ron barely registered the pop that was Harry apparating into the kitchen next to him as a low murmur of shock from the partygoers rose to an angry roar. Moody went to the kitchen hearth, presumably to call the Ministry, and everyone else seemed to erupt into a bustle of activity, fetching restorative glasses of brandy, a sheet to drape the body, or simply talking loudly and bumping into one another.

Everyone but Harry, who Ron dimly realized was still poised at his side, one hand at Ron's elbow.

Feeling his birthday dinner come surging up his throat, Ron shoved his way outside and ran for all he was worth.

He didn't even realize Harry was still with him until he finished throwing up, having collapsed to his knees in the far paddock. Harry supported him as the heaving slowed and brushed Ron's hair back from his sweaty forehead.

"She…she…she w-was the first girl I ever dated. The f-first girl I ever kissed," Ron tried to explain, horrified at how broken his voice sounded.

"I know, mate, I know." Harry's eyes were haunted with his own pain, which he was clearly forcing down to help Ron. The meadow was still mostly brown from the winter but the few shoots of new life matched Harry's steady green gaze, his hands warm on Ron's shoulders. They seemed the only warm thing anywhere as Ron shivered in the stiff March wind away from the backyard's warming charms.

"I always felt so bad because even when I was dating her, I used to watch Hermione and hate that prat Smith she was seeing," Ron couldn't seem to halt the spurting confession. "But I did love Luna, I really did—" He broke off as Harry's face seemed to blur and his voice wavered more alarmingly than ever.

"She knew you loved her, Ron," Harry assured him. "She told me that once after a Quidditch game our seventh year. 'Ronald is such a good boy,' she said in that dreamy way that she has—had. 'It's such a shame that he loves me but is not _in_ love with me, but it's probably due to the wrackspurts. I love him too but I think I might be in love with Professor Snape—he's so masterful when it comes to wrackspurts.'"

Ron gave a choked laugh and sniffed loudly. The wind was drying the tears on his face but he couldn't bring himself to get up and walk back to the Burrow just yet. Harry seemed to know without him needing to say anything and they just sat silently in the sun for a long while.

* * *

Later that night Ron sat at the kitchen table of their flat with a hot cup of tea and tried not to think very much. 

"All right, mate?" Harry asked, emerging from their shared bathroom in a cloud of steam, toweling his hair and making it stand up more wildly than ever. Harry often responded to stress with brutal, grueling workouts. He'd gone for an hour-long run tonight and come in red-faced and wheezing but slightly calmer.

Ron couldn't answer at first but tried to dredge up the will so Harry wouldn't be even more worried.

"Dad firecalled while you were gone and said the funeral will be on Tuesday. Moody's letting us have the day off," he finally mustered and took another sip of tea.

Harry sat down at the table and pinned him with emerald eyes dark with worry.

"Ron, I'm so sorry this happened, and I'm even more sorry it happened on your birthday." He leaned closer and gazed at Ron for a long moment before taking Ron's teacup from him and setting it in the saucer.

Before Ron could puzzle at his behavior Harry had leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Ron's lips.

Pulling back and seeming to seek permission with his eyes, Harry raised a hand to Ron's cheek. Then Ron's eyes fluttered closed as the soft lips were back, slanting against his more insistently this time. Ron gave in with a groan and opened his mouth.

Suddenly Ron was consumed in wet heat as Harry's tongue feverishly explored his mouth. Ron tentatively tasted Harry back and was rewarded with Harry's reciprocal groan. Ron didn't remember when it had happened but became aware that he and Harry were standing pressed against each other, Harry's arousal like a burning brand against his thigh.

Ron wrenched free and looked down into Harry's face, eyes bright with desire behind his now crooked glasses. With a boldness and certainty he didn't know he possessed, Ron deliberately reached down and cupped Harry's arse, drawing him sharply up against him.

"Yes, Harry. Yes," Ron said, trying to imbue the words with as much meaning as possible.

Harry raised both hands to Ron's face and searched his eyes.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked intently.

"I'm sure," Ron whispered. Harry closed his eyes and let out a breath before taking Ron's hand and pulling him towards his bedroom.

Before Ron knew it Harry had pushed him back on the bed and clambered on top of him, scattering hungry kisses all over his face and neck, smoothing his hands across Ron's torso over and over.

"We don't have to do anything you're not ready for," Harry said between kisses. Ron felt dizzy and hot but knew he wanted this, wanted Harry.

"This isn't just to make me feel better about Luna, is it?" Ron demanded suddenly, pushing Harry away slightly with a hand on his chest. He could feel Harry's hard nipple under his palm through Harry's thin t-shirt but tried to focus on Harry's response.

"No, this is most definitely not a pity fuck," Harry said with molten heat in his voice. "I've been planning to take advantage of you on your birthday for some time now, if you would have me," he said with the first hint of uncertainty in his voice at the end.

"Oh, I'll have you, Potter," Ron growled back. "I'll have you flat on your back and screaming my name."

Harry's eyes glinted with mischief as he gave a short thrust of his hips that caused Ron to moan.

"Is that so, birthday boy? Well, let's just see what we've got here," Harry said playfully and began to peel Ron's shirt off. He proceeded to map every inch of Ron's skin with hands and mouth as he exposed it while Ron struggled to divest Harry of his clothing. Surely getting a t-shirt, pajama pants and boxers off of one slightly smaller wizard could not possibly be this difficult. Well, maybe if it weren't for said wizard driving Ron to distraction with a hot little tongue dragging all over his body and leaving wet trails to cool in the night air.

Finally they were both naked but when Harry laved his hipbone for the third time without coming near Ron's desperate cock, Ron was fed up. He gave a guttural growl and reared up, grabbing Harry's arms and twisting so that he now lay atop Harry.

Harry seemed to have no problem with this and merely opened his thighs with a look of such simple trust that Ron was undone. He crushed his lips to Harry's and ravaged his mouth for a delirious moment before pulling back.

"Can I just stick it in?" Ron said, grabbing his eager cock and aiming for Harry's enticing-looking entrance.

"NO! No, no, no," Harry said and Ron jerked back in surprise and dismay until Harry's grin relieved him. "I'm not a girl, mate, I need a little preparation," Harry said, twisting over to the bedside table and fishing a jar of lubricant out of the drawer.

"Oh, okay," Ron said nervously, his arousal still acute but damped a little in the face of this unknown procedure. "What do I--?"

"Just watch," Harry said, dipping his index finger into the jar and spreading his knees wide. Ron watched in fascination as Harry circled his hole with a finger before sliding it in to the first knuckle with a little grunt.

"Merlin, Harry, that's…" Ron could not finish as he watched Harry's prick jump with each finger he carefully inserted.

"Okay, I'm ready," Harry said after he had taken three fingers. "Go ahead, but take it slow—I haven't done this for awhile."

Ron took one last glance at Harry's desire-laden eyes and flushed face before carefully guiding the head of his cock into Harry's entrance.

Oh. Oh, God.

Hot. Tight. So very sweet.

Oh, God.

Ron pushed in further, fascinated by the vision of his swollen prick vanishing into Harry's stretched pucker. A pained-sounding grunt brought him back to reality and his eyes flew back to Harry's face. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was gripping the bed sheets with white knuckles. Shite, he was hurting Harry!

He tried to jerk back but Harry only cried out.

"No, Ron, that'll hurt more, just hold still a minute. I just need a minute," Harry gasped. His eyes opened and then narrowed in concentration. Ron felt the hot passage surrounding him ease slightly as Harry relaxed minutely.

"Okay, a little more," Harry said. "It's okay, Ron," he insisted.

Trembling now from the effort to move slowly, Ron pressed in a millimeter more and felt the sweat trickling down his back. Harry raised his hands to pluck at Ron's nipples and Ron's control slipped further.

"Come on, Ron, I won't break," Harry said, and when Ron still hesitated, canted his hips up with an impatient little thrust.

Ron could take no more and surged forward until he was fully seated. He had to pause and try to slow down his breathing, feeling his heartbeat pulse in his cock now surrounded by soft, impossibly tight heat.

Harry drew his head down for a slow kiss and then spoke against his lips. "Okay, now move. I'm all yours, Ron."

Ron began to thrust slowly, feeling a little clumsy but gaining confidence. How could this be the same but so different from doing a girl? Reminded by that thought of Harry's neglected prick, he reached down and grabbed it at the same time as he angled a thrust slightly upward and was alarmed when Harry bucked and screamed his name.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" Ron asked, suddenly frozen and terrified again.

"No, God, Ron, that was exactly…nngh…just do that again," Harry groaned in a strangled voice.

"Do this?" Ron inquired, matching word to action. Harry's hips jerked violently and Ron grinned, trying to hit the angle again.

"Yes, oh, fuck, Ron, fuck me," Harry chanted, throwing his head back against the pillows. At the sight of Harry's smooth white throat exposed to him, Ron could do nothing but lean down and clamp down his teeth on that tempting pale flesh, laving Harry with his tongue just as he gave a forceful thrust and jerk to Harry's prick.

That seemed to be all it took to drive Harry over the edge and he was suddenly shaking and gushing hot jets of come. The feel of Harry's arse clenching around him pushed Ron over as well and his vision seemed to white out as he came hard, on and on until he thought he'd fly apart.

When Ron came back to himself he was collapsed on Harry, panting into Harry's neck as he felt fingers trailing soothingly through his hair.

"Okay?" Harry asked softly, pulling Ron's head back to look into his eyes.

"Brilliant. I—brilliant," was all Ron could come up with but was rewarded with Harry's lopsided grin.

Ron reluctantly pulled out of Harry with an audible squelch but found himself clean and dry with a wave of Harry's wand.

"Can—can I stay?" Ron asked hesitantly.

"I insist that you do," Harry said playfully, squirming down under the covers after setting his wand on the bedside table.

Ron lay down behind Harry and gathered him back against his chest. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a soft "Happy Birthday," as he felt a light kiss pressed to his hand. Ron entwined his fingers with Harry's and drifted into warm slumber.

* * *

Reviews requested! 


	6. Chapter 6

The following morning there was no time for any awkwardness. Harry's alarm clock began blaring and Ron rolled over, flinging an arm over his eyes and praying for a few more minutes of precious sleep.

"Bollocks! I forgot to set the alarm earlier last night! Today's a Training Day—half hour early start!"

With that Harry sprang out of bed, dragging half the covers with him. Ron groaned at the loss of heat and tried to reclaim the duvet. Eyes still squinched determinedly shut, he had no warning for the soft lips that suddenly descended on his. Ron let out another decidedly more carnal groan.

"If it weren't for some big red-headed poof buggering me into the mattress last night, maybe I would have set the alarm right," Harry said, his already alert and cheerful face blinking into view. Before Ron could muster an appropriate response, Harry had swatted him smartly on the bum and sprinted for the shower.

It was Merlin's luck that he landed a lover who was a morning person.

Lover.

Blimey, he and Harry were lovers.

Ron felt a stupid grin break across his face and suddenly decided that having coffee ready for Harry was sufficiently lover-like but not too girly. He didn't even flinch at the cold floor under his bare feet.

* * *

Being able to semi-openly ogle your best mate while he did chin-ups made the laps around the track a little easier, Ron found by eleven that morning. Harry's t-shirt was drenched with sweat, molding smoothly over his back and biceps, and Ron reckoned he could watch Harry for about seventy-five percent of a lap without drawing too much attention from the other huffing, straining Aurors at various exercise stations. Ron was so involved in watching the even contract and release of Harry's well-formed muscles that he lost track of his laps until Moody's bellow interrupted his reverie.

"That's four extra laps you've completed, Weasley! That's the kind of hustle I like to see from you people," he concluded with a sweep of his magical eye around the room.

Several people rolled their eyes as Ron came to a slightly embarrassed halt and began walking to cool down, but Moody just blew a sharp blast on his whistle to signal the end of the workout, looking incongruously Muggle in his gray sweat suit hacked off above his peg leg. Why he needed a track suit was beyond Ron as he never actually did any exercise himself.

Harry heaved himself up for one last pull-up and then dropped to the floor. He began rotating his arms in wide circles as Ron jogged over.

"Ready for some lunch, mate?" Ron asked, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to mop his streaming face. "Mate?" he asked again when Harry didn't answer.

He dropped the hem of his shirt to find Harry's eyes fixed where his stomach had just been exposed.

Well, hey.

Ron couldn't suppress a grin as Harry's eyes jerked back to his face. Harry was already so flushed from the workout that Ron couldn't tell if he were blushing.

"Looks like you're hungry for something," he couldn't resist teasing as they headed for the locker room. Harry shoved against him with a shoulder and grabbed a towel from the industrial-sized hamper outside the main workout room.

"Shut up or I'll grab you by the bits in the shower and show you exactly what I'm hungry for," Harry returned with a quirk to his mouth.

"Fine by me, mate, but somehow I don't think the others would be so keen. Can you imagine the look on Shacklebolt's face?" Ron guffawed.

Just as they brought up the rear of the tired, sweaty Aurors filing into the locker rooms, Harry raised up on tiptoe to whisper in Ron's ear.

"I want you to spend your entire communal shower thinking about what we can do in our shower at home and then try not to get hard in front of everyone," he murmured with an evil grin.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut in mingled defeat and lust. Luckily he didn't hit his head too hard when he walked directly into the doorjam.

* * *

"The Muggles don't know that this was the original site planned for Hogwarts," Remus commented as he led Ron and Harry across the echoing lobby of the British Library in London. Ron had been there a few times but not since Remus had made a habit of coming there to sort through intelligence documents and strategize with Hermione.

"The four founders were planning to build the school here because it is a well-tuned astrological node for learning—passes right under the constellation Circinus," Remus continued as they entered the main reference room.

"Don't tell me," Harry jumped in, "Circinus, Circinus…"

"The Compasses," Ron interjected without realizing he was going to.

"Well done, Ron," Remus said with a raised eyebrow and a bit of a grin as they wound their way through successively smaller and more specialized reading rooms.

"Since when did you pay attention in Astronomy?" Harry asked in a confused tone.

"Since Hermione petitioned for that re-sit on the fifth year exam," Ron retorted. "She wanted to review constantly for the re-sit, determined to get the highest score ever. We were dating at the time and I figured, hey, if she wants to spend time on the Astronomy Tower, I'm not going to complain if one type of studying leads to another…"

Ron trailed off uncertainly as he realized Harry's mouth had tightened. Maybe you weren't supposed to reminisce about snogging a best friend so soon after beginning a relationship with your other best friend. It occurred to Ron that there were really a lot of things he and Harry hadn't discussed yet. They hadn't talked about what to tell Hermione, what and when to tell the rest of the Weasleys, or Remus, or the Order. Good God, they hadn't even talked about the fact that until approximately a week and a half ago, Ron had firmly believed he was straight.

Remus seemed oblivious to the sudden tension, but Harry seemed to shake it off as they reached Remus' table piled high with messy stacks of paper and weighty books that looked at least as old as the founders. There were students and researchers everywhere walking up and down the tall aisles of books and parked at tables similarly spewing scholarship paraphernalia. Nobody had ever been this diligent at Hogwarts, from what Ron remembered. Well, except the Ravenclaws. And Hermione. Most everyone else spent library study hours either trying to sneak snacks or snogging past Madam Pince back in the stacks.

"A simple Notice-Me-Not charm and the Muggles never realize that I've been hogging this table since eight o'clock this morning, a feat normally impossible in a research facility as busy as the British Library. Well, none of them notice except—ah, Mrs. Swinson, how kind of you to see to my request so quickly!"

Remus turned a charming smile on the elderly woman in a truly hideous tweed suit bustling importantly toward them. She blushed and winked at Remus, who gallantly complimented her on her research skills as she sat an even dustier old volume on the table.

"Anything for you, Mr. Longstaff," she simpered. "And you've brought even more nice young men to study with you. I swear, all you scholarly lads dressed so interestingly—why I had a simply charming blond young man in here just earlier today! Now, you three behave and I might see what else I have in early twelfth century heretics." Her wavering voice floated in the permanent almost whisper of career librarians and she scuttled away with a whiff of old paper.

"Dear woman," Remus said absently as he began sorting stacks of parchment. "We generally get more info from historical Muggle sources if we focus on heresy since so many wizards and witches were accused of it."

"Longstaff?" Harry asked incredulously as he plopped his bag on the chair next to him at the scarred wooden table. "Where did you get that?"

Remus looked up and his cheeks colored faintly.

"Oh, that's just an old joke Sirius and I had. When we first started working for the Order after we graduated we did a lot of undercover work, and we started competing for who could come up with the most aliases that were phallic allusions. Just never got out of the habit, I guess," Remus finished sheepishly.

"That sounds like Sirius," Harry chuckled as Ron tried to muffle his laughter. Merlin forbid he anger Mrs. Swinson and undo all of Remus' careful diplomacy. As he watched Harry wryly shake his head Ron thought how good it was that Harry could finally think of Sirius and smile. It had been a long time in coming and was as due to Harry's stubborn determination to go on despite all the tragedy in his short life as to time passing. Ron felt that warm glow of pride spread through his chest and tried to listen to what Remus was saying before he leaned across the table planted a kiss right on Harry's lips. Snogging Harry in the middle of the British Library was probably not the best way to break their new relationship to Harry's adoptive godfather.

"Now, Harry, Ron, I asked you here to have a look at the data Hermione and I have been able to piece together. Voldemort has broken the Death Eaters into cells of about ten each, and we've been mapping their locations. Thanks to your observations, we've been able to confirm that he's been pairing new recruits with old hands, but we can't figure out what all the movements mean."

Remus pushed a few books aside and unrolled a large map out across the table. Ron put a couple of books on the corners nearest him to hold the curled parchment flat.

"Ron, I'd like your opinion as a chessplayer here," Remus glanced up at him. "It would take too much magical energy to make so many locations Unplottable, but they're not even bothering with simple cloaking charms. Any theories you two can come up with on the significance of the locations and the number of times they're moving would help. I think Hermione and I have been looking at it for too long and we need a fresh eye."

Harry bent over the map and began lightly running his fingers over the places marked, but Ron sat back and let his eye and his mind take it in as a whole. He had found over many years of divining opponents' chess strategies that if you didn't focus too sharply but let your mind relax into the picture, patterns and connections would form and then rise to your conscious awareness.

"Hermione noticed that the sites are either magical now or were famous for magical events or people in the past. That's why we've been doing all of this research here—ancient Muggle sources kept track of magic as they tried to muster evidence for witch trials," Remus explained. "In fact, Harry, pass me that book Mrs. Swinson brought—it's a rare middle English text I've been trying to get access to for some time."

Harry hefted the heavy volume and shifted it over to Remus, who swiped a hand across the cover to try and remove some of the thick layer of dust.

"Strange that this one is so dirty—they normally keep these rare older texts in pristine, protected conditi—"

Ron looked up as Remus cut off suddenly. The werewolf had gone suddenly rigid in his chair, staring down at his dust-covered hand in shock. Ron looked down at the book and noticed that the dust was strangely sparkly. Before he could process the oddness of the dust or Remus' reaction, Remus slumped over on the table and began to shiver.

"Silver dust! It's been covered in silver dust!" Harry shouted, dragging the book out from under Remus' arms and flinging it away. "Ron, lay him out on the floor while I find his medicine," Harry ordered urgently.

Ron shot up out of his chair, knocking it over in his haste to get to Remus. As he hefted the now violently shaking man up by his armpits and laid him gently on the floor beside the table, he gave thanks in the back of his mind that the Notice-Me-Not charm kept the Muggles from seeing a werewolf in convulsions from silver poisoning in the middle of the British Library.

"Just hang on, Remus," Harry said in what was probably meant to be a reassuring voice but shook with nerves. He was tearing through Remus' bag, trying to find the small leather parcel that carried Remus' emergency potion syringes. Silver being a fairly common substance, Remus always carried the small kit should he be accidentally exposed.

"Dammit, where is it?" Harry muttered frantically as Ron settled Remus head on his lap and brushed hair off Remus' sweating forehead.

"F-f-front p-pocket," Remus wheezed. His tremors vibrated through Ron's legs and Ron tried not to notice how blue his lips were getting.

Harry dove into the front pocket of Remus' bag and reached to pull the packet out.

"Got it—"

Harry vanished.

Ron stared uncomprehendingly.

Portkey, the packet had been turned into a portkey—what the hell?

This whole thing had been a setup. Shit, that librarian said something about a blonde man in the same type of clothes they were wearing who'd been in here earlier—goddammit, if he'd paid attention he'd have picked up that it had to have been Malfoy. Some Auror he was. Harry had been spirited off to Merlin knew where and he had a dying werewolf in his arms.

"Remus, can you hear me?" The werewolf's eyes were now rolling around in his head and he was shaking harder than ever. "I'm going to make us a portkey to St. Mungo's and we'll get you sorted in no time."

Luckily, Remus seemed too far gone to question why they weren't simply using his anti-toxin or to realize that Harry was gone. Ron set the portkey and felt the familiar jerk behind his navel.

Ron relayed the situation to the head mediwitch and watched the team of trauma mediwizards descend upon Remus in the emergency ward of St. Mungo's. Then he stalked toward the nearest fireplace to start setting things in motion. Call Grimmauld Place and get someone over here to be with Remus, get to Auror HQ to get a team together to go after Harry, ask Hermione to go to the library to collect evidence from the scene and question the librarian—Ron took refuge in letting his training take over, pushing away the panic and horror that would lessen efficiency in a combat situation.

And there would sure as hell be a combat situation in short order if Ron had anything to do with it. Ron refused to believe that Remus would shortly be following Dean and Seamus and Luna, but Malfoy would pay regardless of whether Remus survived the silver poisoning.

But all of that aside, if he had laid a finger on Harry by the time Ron got there they would have to use dental records to identify Malfoy.

* * *

Three days later the wrenching fear remained but the burning anger had been replaced by growing despair. Ron sat at the kitchen table in their flat and stared at his cup of tea gone long cold. The silence seemed to scream Harry's absence, and Ron found himself absurdly covering his ears with his hands to block it out.

He'd been with different search teams for thirty hours straight but Moody had sent him home two hours ago, telling him that if he didn't sleep for eight hours he would be taken off the investigation permanently. Frankly Ron was amazed they'd let him help look for Harry at all given how personally involved he was. If only they knew exactly how involved he and Harry had become in the last two weeks.

Had it only been two weeks since that night in the Muggle club when Ron first found himself lusting after Harry? He'd loved Harry as a friend since they were eleven, but now to find the possibility of that love growing into something new—it had been terrifying and electrifying at the same time, like finding he'd made the Gryffindor quidditch team. Alone in the flat feeling like someone had cut out his stomach since Harry was gone, Ron could admit the truth—he was perilously close to falling hard for Harry.

Ron's hands left his ears and slid into his hair, grabbing handfuls and pulling as if the slight sting could ever eclipse the pain in his soul at knowing Harry could be cold, frightened, in pain, dying—no! It couldn't happen. Harry always made it.

God, please, let him make it this time.

The floo flared and Hermione stepped into the kitchen.

"Ron? Moody said he'd sent you home, but I wasn't sure if he meant here or the Burrow," she said. Her bushy hair was wilder than ever and the usually sharp ironed creases in her clothing were soft and wrinkled, highlighting her fatigue.

Ron couldn't find anything to say but Hermione didn't seem to need him to talk. She chatted quietly as she prepared fresh tea for them, turning up the lights Ron hadn't bothered with and coming to sit at the table with two steaming mugs.

"Remus hasn't regained consciousness, but at least he didn't die outright, so there's hope," she said with a sigh, her brown eyes pools of worry but her chin bravely firm as ever. "The real concern is if there have been any permanent neurological effects. To think of a scholar like Remus suffering brain damage—it just can't happen."

"It can't happen? I'm really afraid of what 'can't happen,' Hermione," Ron spoke at last, his voice rough but without real rancor.

"I know, Ron, but Harry's a match for Malfoy any day, you know that," she said determinedly.

"Hermione, Malfoy has managed to kill three of our friends and seriously injure two others in the past two weeks. He's a more skilled assassin than anyone we've seen in this war or the last. He got the drop on Harry and he's working for Voldemort. Plus he's still got some kind of twisted thing for Harry since they broke up. I fail to see how the odds are stacked Harry's favor," Ron finished bitterly. He took a gulp of the tea and was harshly glad when it burnt his tongue.

"Ronald Weasley, don't you sit here and tell me you of all people have lost faith in Harry," Hermione spat suddenly, apparently at the end of her calm composure at last.

"I haven't lost faith in him!" Ron roared, shooting to his feet and walking over to brace his hands on the sink. He let his head droop as the anger faded as fast as it had risen.

"It's just that I'm…I'm scared, Hermione. We're not kids on an adventure anymore. We haven't got Dumbledore watching out for us, or McGonagall and Snape as our teachers to protect us, or Sirius or even Remus to fight for us anymore. No more grownups to hide behind when things get really rough. This is for real, and I…I let them take Harry right in front of me—"

Ron had to break off as tears threatened. Hermione had come to stand behind him. She reached out to hug him but he shrugged her away.

"No, Hermione, please, I can't—"

Once again she understood and just laid a warm hand on his back very lightly.

"You were the one he would miss the most," she said softly.

Ron raised his head and turned to look at her.

"You were the one he would miss the most during the tournament and now he is the one you miss the most. Things are different now, aren't they?"

He searched her eyes for condemnation but found only understanding. The sight of this compassion in her beloved face that had always, always been there no matter what seemed to break the string of tension holding him up and he collapsed into her arms.

"Oh, God, Hermione, we just figured it out last week and the night before he was taken we, well, you know, and it was, it was…"

She leaned back and looked up into his face.

"It was good?"

"It was brilliant! Who knew I was a poof at heart?" Ron sniffled, a grin breaking across his face. "I don't know what's happening, Hermione, but since he's gone it just hurts so _bad_."

She laid a palm across his cheek.

"You think you might be in love with him?" Her voice was still tender but there was a thin thread of sadness in it.

He closed his eyes and nodded. He felt a gentle kiss dropped on his forehead before she rubbed his upper arms briskly and stepped away.

"Well, then, we've just got to find him now, war effort or no war effort," she teased with a grin. "Of course, once we get him back, I'm going to tell him that I'll rip his balls off if he hurts you. And you had better watch your balls if you hurt him. Now, get some sleep and call me if you need anything," she said as she finished washing up the teacups and reached for the floo powder.

"Hermione," he called as she threw in the powder and prepared to step in. "Thanks."

He knew she understood what he meant.

* * *

Ron was running, running as hard as he could. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face and making his grip on his wand precarious. His muscles burned with strain as he pounded down the corridor of the foul dungeon.

Harry was down there, down at the end in the left hand cell, Ron knew it with every fiber in his being. He put on an extra burst of speed. He just had to get there because something terrible was about to happen, he knew it.

Thirty feet away, twenty-five feet, twenty—

Ron slammed into an invisible wall. He was still moving but felt like he was running through thick treacle.

"Harry!" he shouted desperately as he fought to keep his limbs churning. Maybe if Harry knew he was coming he could hold on until Ron got there. Please, Harry, hang on, I'm coming, oh god, Harry, don't die before I can get there, Harrypleasedon'tdieIneedyoutoomuch—

"Harry!"

Ron found himself sitting bolt upright in Harry's bed where he'd slept for the past three nights. He was panting and sweating.

A dream. Shite, it had only been a dream.

No matter how terrible the nightmare, Ron wished all of the horror were true if it meant he could be that close to finding Harry.

The darkness and silence were once again deafening in the empty flat.

Harry.

* * *

Reviews requested!

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Author Alert: This chapter contains material that may be inappropriate for young and/or sensitive readers.

* * *

A centrally located conference room at the Auror headquarters in the Ministry had been turned into the clearinghouse for all information on the missing Boy-Who-Lived. Fudge had hastily dubbed the search a number one priority in order to prevent a panic in the wizarding community rather than out of any real concern for Harry, Ron knew. Fudge feared being forced out of power if the shaky confidence the public held him in wavered any more with their hero missing. Ron had come to rely on one of his brothers gripping his arm and holding him firmly in his seat every time Fudge strutted through the Auror department alternately asking anxious questions and making short, self-important speeches to the effect that he was sure a lucky lad like Harry would come out all right in the end. With the certain knowledge that Fudge didn't give a shit for Harry beyond his political capital and the dreadful truth that Harry had now been missing for five days pounding in his head, Ron knew that the next time the Minister showed his face all of his brothers put together would not be able to hold him back from punching the pompous politician.

Ron drew in a deep breath and refocused his attention on the intelligence reports on the table in front of him. Breathing slowly and evenly, he willed the random collection of data to provide the clue that would take him to Harry, simultaneously trying to soothe the rapidly unraveling shreds of his self-control into a calm façade. He felt Moody's all-seeing eye constantly on him, waiting for the chance to claim that Ron was too emotional and take him off the case. Ron knew he _was_ too emotional—it was Harry, for God's sake—but that didn't make him any more willing to abandon him in some pointless bid for professionalism.

How could someone as alive with magic and energy as Harry vanish so completely? Ron felt like the silence of his lonely flat had encompassed all of England, a terrifyingly opaque quiet void that had stolen Harry and would not give him back.

"We've got it!" Hermione crowed triumphantly, bursting into the conference room and shoving a ream of parchment in Moody's face. "I wasn't sure but now—"

"Shut up, Granger!" Moody bellowed, batting the papers away. "Not another word until we've got only key personnel and proper security charms."

Hermione deflated only slightly and when Ron saw as she turned toward him the bright sparkle of hope in her eyes that had become dull with despair over the past five days, he felt his heart lift into his throat. Could she really have found him?

Moody waded efficiently through the Aurors, clerks, intelligence operatives and various other employees camped out in the conference room, neatly sending the ones who were not in the Order to fetch the ones who were in the Order but not present. The non-Order personnel had no idea why they were all shifted around, included in some operations but not others, forced to simply accept Moody's strange machinations as part of his paranoid security features. Thus Moody's cagey reputation enabled him to assemble and mobilize the Order directly out of Ministry Auror headquarters.

Ron realized he was sifting through the ranks of Order members and Moody's clever procedures in an effort to distract himself from the dizzying hope that they might be within range of reclaiming Harry. As heavy counterbalance to the optimistic possibility was the stomach-churning dread of what condition Harry would be in when they found him. Ron willed the Order members to get here quickly. Every moment Harry was in Malfoy's hands decreased his chances of survival.

If he were still alive at all.

Ron shoved the thought firmly away. Of course Harry was still alive. For one thing, he, Ron, would have felt it if Harry had died. For another, Voldemort had yet to decree world domination, emerging triumphantly in a cloud of flames in Diagon Alley or something.

That meant somewhere, somehow, Harry was still fighting. And that was all Ron needed to keep hoping.

As if sharing his impatience, Hermione tapped her foot and pursed her lips as the last Order members came rushing in and Moody placed a complicated set of wards on the door. As silence fell and everyone looked expectantly toward her, she plunged in, her now absolutely wild frizz floating around her head as if to reflect her sparking energy.

"Professor Snape performed a chemical analysis on the poison administered to Neville Longbottom and found that it utilized Cuban earwigs, a fairly rare potions ingredient. When I conducted a search of recent commercial transactions that came through British wards from Cuba, I found an earwig shipment delivered to a Bridethorn Hall in Lancashire. Ginny Weasley was able to ascertain that an order of silver dust, the cause of Remus Lupin's current hospitalization, also recently arrived there. To top it all off, Bridethorn Hall is registered to Narcissa Black, whom we all know as Narcissa Malfoy. Apparently Draco didn't think we would put the pieces together."

Pink with excitement, Hermione concluded and drew in a much-needed breath. Ron felt the grin light up his face at her revelation, and the Order concurred if the surge of renewed vigor that swept the room were anything to go by.

Moody heaved himself to his feet. "All right, people. We don't know if Malfoy's seeming carelessness is truly that or a trap designed to draw us in, so look sharp. We'll be taking in a strike team in two hours. All active Aurors get your gear together, and the rest of you organize in the usual support staff lineups, pre-op and post-op. Pre-op people, we're relying on you not only to make sure we go in with the usual assets but also with a few tricks up our sleeves."

Moody eyed the twins with these words and they leveled evil grins back at him. George actually rubbed his hands in anticipation as Moody continued.

"Post-op people, I want complete medical prep at Grimmauld. We don't know what shape Potter will be in when we get to him and I want to be able to portkey him into a fully operational healing facility. Poppy, you have free rein, and see if you can lay your hands on Fawkes while you're at it, we might need his tears. Apparition is at 1800 hours. Move out."

The room exploded into activity as the Order swung into motion. Ron knew Hermione would remain here in case any new intelligence data came in during the operation, and figured that he could get about twenty minutes of a catnap in and still be able to see her after meeting with the pre-op team to get briefed and supplied with additional weapons. After the days of tense worry he needed a few minutes of sleep to be ready to move out, and now having a real direction to work toward Harry, he had no doubt that he would actually be able to relax into unconsciousness for a short time. Twenty minutes would have to do it, though, because even though he and Harry always deliberately said goodbye to her before any operation in case things went seriously wrong, this time Ron owed Hermione an especially big hug—she had found Harry. Ron hoped the joy of this accomplishment would keep them both from being dragged down by Harry's absence from their customary embrace.

* * *

Ron was pleased that he was not even out of breath as he dropped to a crouch behind Kingsley Shacklebolt on the perimeter of Bridethorn Hall. Having apparated in five miles out and flown brooms four miles more, the strike team had taken the last mile at a run to avoid bringing any magical signatures into the wards of the Malfoy property. Ron was wingman to Shacklebolt and Kingsley had set a punishing pace for the run as he took point position for the raid. Ron felt a brief pang as he realized the extra laps while ogling Harry must have paid off, but as he and Kingsley cleared the final row of formal hedges his mind dropped into the clean lines of battle training and infiltration protocol.

He and Kingsley were poised beneath a first-floor window, thus far no signs of alarms, grounds staff, or house elves. A chill breeze from the early dusk ruffled Ron's hair and made him shiver slightly as the sweat from the run began to cool on his face. Kingsley signaled the other teams crouched at windows around the hall by tapping his watch with his wand, triggering a five second countdown. Ron watched the seconds tick down, idly noticing scratches on his hands from the holly bushes they'd hidden behind. He tensed his legs under him, situating one knee forward to provide maximum latent power and stability.

At the signal Kingsley vanished the window above them and they vaulted into it. Ron kept a dual focus, half of his attention trained on his point man and the other half of his senses keenly attuned to threats. As he and Shacklebolt smoothly exchanged positions back and forth, one covering while the other advanced a few feet down a hallway or kicked open a door, the dark silence was broken only by the calls of the Aurors as they stormed the house.

"This is Ministry Law Enforcement! Throw down your wands and show yourselves! Anti-apparition wards have been set!"

Finding nothing on the first floor and the other teams confirming that the upstairs was clear, the group converged and prepared to penetrate the lower levels of the manor. They had fully expected to find Harry held somewhere underground, but as Kingsley took point position again with Ron in a close rear-guard, Ron knew that everyone was uncomfortably aware that there had been no signs of occupation in the house thus far. Ron continued to sweep his wand in smooth arcs, right to left to right from high to low, the repetitive movements requiring no thought. He strained his ears for a cry, a shout, a laugh, an incantation, anything. Had they come this far on a false lead?

Coming to the end of a long spiraled stone staircase damp with age and mold, the Aurors fanned out down a corridor of multiple doors. There was no need to caution anyone to be careful—the thick tension had silenced even the customary commands for suspects to come out and throw down their wands.

The switch-off pattern placed Kingsley in position to kick open the last door, making Ron the first one inside.

Where all of his training sluiced out his head in a sickening rush.

They had found Harry.

Paying no attention to whether or not there were any enemies in the room, not checking for one guard hex or booby trap, Ron found himself on his knees next to Harry with no memory of having crossed the room.

Harry was a mass of dirt and blood, laid out on his back on the stone floor, utterly still. His eyes were open and fixed.

For a heart-crushing moment Ron was sure he was dead.

Then a faint rise and fall of Harry's chest brought noise and reality crashing back. Kingsley was kneeling next to him running medical diagnostic spells while the rest of the team secured the room, sweeping for surveillance charms and reporting back to Moody.

Ron clutched Harry's hand.

"Harry? Can you hear me? Are you all right?" Ron cursed himself for such a stupid question—of course Harry was not all right, he was clearly badly injured.

"Broken ribs, substantial blood loss, slight concussion, broken wrist, lower intestinal damage, numerous abrasions and lacerations, and a crushed kneecap," Shacklebolt muttered as he swept his wand over Harry. Ron looked down and saw that the leg of Harry's trousers was soaked with even more blood than the rest of his stained clothing and his leg was twisted awkwardly.

"Potter? Can you hear me?" Kingsley repeated Ron's question but to Ron's dawning horror, Harry, although clearly awake, continued to stare fixedly into space.

"Weasley, join the outside perimeter team to collect evidence. I'm going to portkey Potter to Grimmauld," Shacklebolt instructed hurriedly.

Ron did not let go of Harry's hand.

"Sir, with respect, you have much more experience with trace evidence correlation. It would be a better use of our strengths if I took Harry back," Ron said evenly, trying to at least appear to follow chain of command. No way in hell was he letting go of Harry, but maybe he wouldn't actually have to openly defy an immediate superior.

Kingsley's raised eyebrow showed he wasn't fooled by Ron's flattery, but since he'd seen Harry and Ron grow up together, he seemed to be inclined to let it pass. A knowing glint in his dark eyes made Ron wonder if he didn't understand his and Harry's relationship quite clearly.

"All right, Weasley, here's the preset portkey. You can wait to report to Moody until you hear Pomfrey's assessment of him."

Ron pressed the portkey into Harry's limp hand and felt his heart clench in fear again as he watched Harry's blank gaze, the streaks of dirt and sweat that marred his pale face making his staring green eyes clash even more with the blood streaking his clothes. Kingsley pressed himself to his feet and began snapping out orders that Ron didn't hear as he and Harry were sucked through space to safety.

* * *

Ron started awake as a mediwitch bustled noisily into the room, her robes swishing importantly and her rubber shoes squeaking on the polished floor. Ron scrubbed at his eyes and cocked his head, attempting to release the crick in his neck as he sat forward in the uncomfortable armchair.

"Well, Mr. Potter, awake at last," the dusty blond mediwitch said in the professionally cheerful voice that all St. Mungo's employees had. She hung Harry's chart on the end of his bed and placed a stack of folded clothes on his bedside stand. "Looks like we've got you patched up. Normally we like to keep patients in your condition longer than this, but as I understand security is a concern, we're going to go ahead and let you go pending ongoing medical evaluation. I've been told that the Hogwarts mediwitch will have you under her care. Go ahead and get dressed and the Healer will be in to see you momentarily."

She bustled out with neither a word to Ron nor any verbal acknowledgment from Harry. Staring down at the bedspread for a few moments, Harry eased himself out from between the sheets and reached for the stack of clothes. Before he could even place his full weight on his feet his knees buckled.

Ron was on his feet in an instant, arms wrapped around Harry to support him. "Whoa, there, mate, take it easy. Let me give you a hand."

Harry did not say anything but nodded, which encouraged Ron. This was the first time Harry had communicated at all since his rescue.

When the portkey had activated, Ron found himself in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, arms full of Harry. The post-op team immediately swirled around them in organized confusion, pulling Harry out of his arms and onto the bed that occupied the dining table's usual space. Ron was drawn to the side for a debriefing with Elphias Doge, but he could not speak coherently, too consumed by Harry's limp, pale form being exposed by Madame Pomfrey as she cut away his clothes to reveal more and more injuries. The next ten minutes were a wild blur of Harry's blood and orders barked to the medical assist team and Doge continuing to fire questions at him as the remainder of the strike team portkeyed in. Ron tried to focus on the questioning, knowing it was a privilege to submit a verbal report instead of a written one and that he would catch hell from Moody _and_ Shacklebolt if he couldn't pull it together.

But all Ron could see through the dizzying chaos was Harry's wide, silent green eyes, staring straight ahead with no sign of recognition of anything that was happening to him. As Madame Pomfrey and her team worked on him, Harry didn't make a sound even through what Ron knew were painful procedures.

At last the noise in the kitchen subsided, the medical team finishing its work, the strike team dispersing for food and rest, and Doge ending the questioning, seemingly satisfied with Ron's stammering and disjointed responses. Ron pushed forward toward Harry and felt an arm come around his shoulders. He looked down and saw his Mum's face covered in mingled relief and worry. He was half grateful for her comforting touch and half afraid it would make him break down. Christ, what had happened to Harry to make him react like this?

"Mr. Potter? Can you hear me?" Madame Pomfrey ran a gentle hand over his hair, belying her brusque, urgent words.

Harry did not respond. He continued to stare blankly as her hand passed through his hair again, and then his eyes rolled back in his head, his body going slack.

"He's stable for the moment, but not reacting to stimulus at all. We need to get him to St. Mungo's for a neuromagical workup. I don't want to tackle that kind of specialized procedure here," Madame Pomfrey addressed a worried looking McGonagall. The Headmistress considered for a moment.

"Very well. Let me get a few people to augment the security and we'll portkey him over. Thank you for getting him this far, Poppy." McGonagall hurried out of the kitchen.

"Ron, dear, let me get you something to eat and then you can go to bed. You must be exhausted," Mrs. Weasley said quietly, already heading over to the stove.

"No, Mum, I'm going with Harry. I'm not leaving him alone." Despite his fatigue, Ron infused his tone with as much authority as possible.

She stared at him contemplatively for a moment and then surprised him.

"All right, dear. Just firecall me later to let me know how Harry's doing."

Ron was flabbergasted by her easy agreement but did not question his good fortune. McGonagall bustled back in with three other Order members in tow and seemed too distracted to question Ron's presence as they grabbed the old sock, the toe resting on Harry's chest, and sped away.

Now helping Harry on with his own socks in his room at St. Mungo's, Ron did not know whether to break the oppressive silence or let Harry speak in his own time. The door opened again to admit a middle-aged man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair wearing the distinctive blue Healer's robes.

"Mr. Potter, an honor to meet you," he said crisply, making no effort to shake Harry's hand but immediately flipping through Harry's chart. "And you, sir," he said to Ron, without actually bothering to ask Ron's name or even look at him. Good thing this idiot wasn't in charge of security.

Ron waited for Harry to acknowledge the greeting.

Nothing.

"The neuromagical tests came back clean, and your preliminary treatment was satisfactory. We actually had very little to do beyond finishing the alignment of your damaged kneecap and finalizing the healing of your lower intestinal damage," the Healer concluded with an air of satisfaction.

His brisk air melted away in the next moment, however, and he sat on the bed next to Harry, setting the chart on next to him and folding his hands in his lap.

"About that lower intestinal and rectal damage, Mr. Potter. It shows clear evidence of sexual assault. I also understand that you have been unable to speak since your ordeal. Can you talk to me about what happened? These things take time to recover from, but we have some very skilled Mind Healers at St. Mungo's," he finished quietly.

Ron was frozen against the wall across from Harry. His blood felt like ice in his veins and there was a fierce pounding in his ears. Sexual assault?

Harry, his Harry, had been…had been—raped?

Oh, God. Please, God, no.

Harry sat silently, not exactly curled up but seeming to subtly take up less space than he had a few minutes before. His eyes flickered briefly up to Ron before staring at the floor again.

The Healer noticed Harry's glance. "You don't have to be afraid to speak, Mr. Potter. I can send your security detail outside while we talk," he finished, looking pointedly at Ron.

Harry's arm darted out spasmodically toward Ron and then returned to his lap. He placed a thin hand to his throat as he swallowed, drawing in several deep breaths as he tried to speak. The Healer reached over to the bedside stand and poured him a glass of water, which Harry took several sips of before handing it back. His throat worked again and he clenched his eyes shut for a moment.

"No," a thin whisper came out. "No, Ron can stay." The voice was a little stronger this time. "He's not security, he's…he can stay."

Relief at hearing Harry speak at last warred with horror at what the Healer had diagnosed. Ron had been so relieved to find Harry and then so afraid when he couldn't speak. Now he was so relieved to hear Harry's voice but terrified of what he would say.

The Healer waited patiently while Harry took several more deep breaths. Harry's face seemed to compose itself and a little of the tension drained out of his body. Ron felt a corresponding sense of calm waft over him at these signs of Harry's return to normal.

"I wasn't sexually assaulted," Harry said, carefully pressing his hands flat on the bedspread. "I was captured by Draco Malfoy, an old boyfriend of mine. I thought he wanted to hurt me or deliver me to Voldemort, but he only wanted a chance to talk to me and knew he would never get it without taking me by force. He took me to the house where his mum grew up. He wouldn't let me leave until he told me how much he cared for me, enough to defy Voldemort's orders to assassinate me on sight."

Harry looked up at Ron, his eyes emerald pools of sadness.

"He said he just wanted one chance with me, to let us both see if the love we had before could have been salvaged. I killed his father, you see, and it broke us apart," Harry directed to the intently listening Healer. Ron was equally riveted by the story, not sure where it was going but thankful at least that Harry hadn't been raped.

"I told him I was seeing someone else, but when he kissed me it was like we were eighteen again, like no time had passed. There always was a lot of chemistry between us. Everything just flew out of my head and—and I slept with him. It was fast and kind of rough, the way we always like it, which I guess is why I'm kind of banged up down there. Back when we were in school he would always heal me after we were done."

Harry addressed this last bit to the floor. A screen of red descended across Ron's vision. Blistering rage gathered slowly, feeling like a physical burn in his throat. Harry and Malfoy—oh, God. Harry had never gotten over him, Ron had been afraid of that all along. Bitterness washed over Ron at the knowledge that his fumbling until-recently-straight best mate wasn't enough for Harry—he needed Malfoy's expertise. But Harry was still talking.

"After it was over, I told him it was a mistake and I never wanted to see him again. He pleaded with me for awhile but I just told him to give me my wand back and that I never wanted to see him again. He kissed me again and then apparated out, taking my wand with him. He didn't seem that angry but I guess he was because the next thing I knew the room was full of Death Eaters. They must have been under his orders because they didn't take me to Voldemort. They just hit me and kicked me a lot and cast cruciatus a few times. Then they dumped me in the basement and left. I couldn't walk because of my knee and I lay there for four days before you lot found me," Harry finished, mute apology flooding his green eyes as he gazed up at Ron.

The Healer was frowning by this point but said nothing for the moment. Ron stood there shaking his head mechanically back and forth, feeling short of breath, hot and cold at the same time. How could this be happening? But there was no way around it.

While he and Hermione had been mad with grief and fear Harry had been fucking Draco Malfoy.

"Ron, I'm so sorry," Harry said, his chin starting to quiver. "I don't know what came over me. I guess I just wanted to finish things with Draco completely so you and I could be together, free and clear." Harry seemed to have lost all self-consciousness in front of the Healer, whose eyes widened at the clear implication that he and Ron were involved.

Ron stared at the slight, well-formed body that he knew so well, the fine but powerful features of the pale face, suddenly hateful and ugly to him. The furious heat that had washed his face drained away and he felt his heart turn to ice. He closed his eyes against the pleading green gaze but saw only visions of Harry's taut body entwined with Malfoy's tall, lean build, dark hair tangling with pale blond tresses, grasping hands, thrusting hips—

Ron's eyes snapped open. The Healer had started talking but Ron didn't hear a word he was saying. Ron walked rapidly out of the room without speaking. His mind felt far away.

He wished Harry's voice had not come back.

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Reviews requested! 


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